The Beginning of Eternity
by Lambent Flame
Summary: Mr. Burns uses a time machine of Professor Frink's to prevent the death of an old friend. How will Waylon Junior's life turn out with his father in it? And is he still destined to fall in love with Mr. Burns?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"And in the event of a catastrophic failure of the back-up control systems, the Freeze-Up bot will go into the core and perform a manual shutdown," said Professor Frink, pointing to video slides of photographs taken of the bot performing its duties during tests. He cleared his throat and made some Frink sounds before glancing nervously up at Burns to gauge his level of approval.

Burns leaned back in his office chair, interlocked his fingers, and stretched his arms out in front of him. This meeting was nothing new. Countless employees and contractors had submitted slick proposals for advanced safety systems and even basic precautions and been summarily rejected. This time would be no different. "You have tenure at Springfield University. Why are you wasting my time with this safety nonsense?"

"Surely you can't put a price on –" Frink realized he had lost Burns, but he finished his sentence nonetheless. "–on your employees' lives."

"Get out."

Frink turned his head down and sighed as he trudged toward the exit. "I guess all I have left to do is go back in time with my time machine to tell myself not to bother coming here."

Burns' ear perked. "Time machine, you say?"

"Oh, yes, just a little side project of mine."

"And it really works?"

"Yes, it does."

"Smithers, get me some coffee."

Smithers' brow furrowed. "But sir, I just gave you –"

"No back-sassing me!" Burns slammed the coffee mug in his hand down on the desk, sloshing hot coffee out of the top and spilling onto the desktop and Smithers' hand.

"Yes, sir." Smithers skittered for the hall.

Once the door shut, Mr. Burns stood, tented his fingers, and said, "Professor Frink? I have a job for you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Why are these numbers so high? Why is that red light flashing? And what's that alarming sound?" He opened his mouth once more to summon his dear friend, Waylon Smithers, Sr., but a hand clasped around his mouth from behind.

"Shut up. I am you from the future, and unless you want to see Smithers Senior die in a terrible accident, you will do exactly as I say." The elder Burns stepped in front of his younger self. "The plant's core is about to meltdown. I have brought an automaton capable of fixing the problem so Waylon doesn't have to sacrifice his life. Is that clear?" The 50s Burns nodded his head. "Good. Frink – release the robot." He motioned for Frink to release his hand from around his younger self's mouth.

Frink ran to the doors by the shielding of the core and set the robot on the ground, activated it, and then fled, sealing the outer doors behind him. The robot deftly made its way to the core, then moved the control rods to slow the reaction until the situation was stable. "I programmed the robot to self-destruct after it's finished its task," said Frink. "You do realize this means you won't exist anymore, right?"

"What? That wasn't part of the deal!"

"Well, most likely Mr. Burns will still exist, but Smithers' father surviving will surely alter you in unforeseen ways."

" _Now_ you tell me."

The flashing red lights and klaxons ended abruptly, and Frink said, "Success! Now, let's skedaddle and SCRAM!" Frink grabbed Burns' wrist and pressed a button on a handheld remote, and then they dissolved.

Waylon Smithers, Sr., carrying his infant son, ran into the control room where Burns stood stock still in terror and confusion. "Monty, why did the alarms sound? What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," said Burns, "but it appears we're out of danger, now."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Now, blow out the candles," said Waylon Smithers, Sr. to his son, who happily complied. "How many candles on that cake, son?"

"Four!" he said with the enthusiasm of someone who had just been let in on some profound secret of the universe.

"That's right, Waylon! You're four years old, now." He picked him up and held him on his lap. "Remember when I said I would get you something special for your birthday?" He nodded. "Well, here it is." He reached under his coat and pulled out a box wrapped in blue paper and pink ribbon.

Waylon Junior eagerly unraveled the ribbon and tore at the paper, revealing a box and the name that had been buzzing in his mind for the last year: Malibu Stacy. He took the doll into his hand, blond hair curling around his finger as he marveled at her sleek, made-up eyes and stylish green dress with an A-line skirt. The initial shock wore off, and he squeezed the doll against his chest and leaned his head against his father. "Thank you, Daddy! I love you," he said, wrapping his arms around his father and hugging him.

"Hattie, get the camera." His wife took their Kodak Duaflex into her hands and took a photograph of them.

"I thought you said I couldn't have a Malibu Stacy because it was for girls, though."

"I know, but I did some thinking, and I asked myself, 'Why can't it be for boys, too?' And I realized I didn't have a good answer to that question. So – happy birthday." He hugged his son briefly before lifting him up off his lap to stand on the floor. "Now, let's have some of that delicious cake your mother made."

* * *

"We've finished implementing my updates to the control rod system. Everything is running smoothly, sir," said Waylon Senior.

Burns looked to the floor and shook his head. "Honestly, Waylon, I don't know how I let you talk me into approving these upgrades. Do you realize how much it's costing me in man-hours?"

"But Monty, these are vital to ensuring the safety of plant operators... including me."

"Bah! When we first began construction of this plant, you assured me of your design's safety."

"I know, but we've learned much in the intervening years, and being a father, I'm a little less cavalier than I was as a grad student when I originally conceived of the design. Need I remind you of what happened to Cecil at Los Alamos last year?" He stared far out in front of him as he recalled the grisly end of his friend and former colleague. "The radiation reduced his blood to water." He shuddered. "That is the last way I'd want to go." He pulled out his wallet and looked at the photograph of his son sitting on his lap, hugging him, on his fourth birthday, Malibu Stacy clutched in his hand. "I couldn't leave him on his own."

"Now I know how you persuaded me." He stood and leaned back casually against the end of his desk. "How is Waylon Junior?"

"Oh, he's a bright, energetic boy. So well-behaved, you wouldn't believe it. I do worry about him, though."

"What makes you worry?"

"He's a bit sensitive. If I even hint at the idea that he's done something to disappoint me, he goes into a crying fit. He'll say things like, 'I'm awful; I don't deserve your love,' and it breaks my heart. I would never say these awful things to him, and neither would Hattie, but he's so quick to berate himself. I'm at a loss to explain where this is coming from or how I can help him, other than by reassuring him that nothing would make me stop loving him." His brows furrowed. "You know, Monty, this didn't start up until he started school. Damn it, it's those little cretins at his school who are putting these ideas in his head, aren't they?"

"At least he has you on his side."

"Yes, but I can't be at his side every hour of the day. Ultimately, bullying is something I just can't protect him from, and I fear it's only going to get worse as he gets older."

"Perhaps he does get a pinch of that catastrophic thinking from you, after all."

"I hope for the best, but I have to prepare for the worst. If I didn't think that way, I wouldn't have been equipped to design the plant."

"That's a bit of a reach, dear friend. Adolescence doesn't have the same inherent risk of a nuclear chain reaction."

Smithers Senior smirked. "You're right – adolescence is at least an order of magnitude more dangerous."

"He's still – what, five?"

"Almost six."

"How typical of parents. You worry endlessly over the minutiae of your children's lives, and it deprives you of the focus you need in your work. I assure you, your fears are groundless."

"They are not groundless." He pressed his lips tightly together. "You haven't interacted with Waylon much since he was a baby, have you?"

"Not much, no."

"He has a... delicate demeanor. He doesn't go for rough and tumble play with the other boys. He's downright obsessed with the Malibu Stacy dolls, and I know he catches hell for that."

"He does have an air of the epicene about him."

He clenched his eyes shut. "I wonder if it's my fault. I'm the one who gave him his first Malibu Stacy. I could find no logical reason to forbid my son to play with dolls, but I was ignoring the human factor, that his classmates are not so measured and logical when they decide who to laugh at and beat up."

Burns pointed to the wallet photo. "Does that look like a mistake to you?" Smithers Senior shook his head in the negative. "He adores you. If only my father had loved me as you love your son, I would have emerged from the humiliations of childhood virtually unscathed."

"Could love really be enough?"

"To solve the problem, no. To ease him through it, though, I believe love is the only thing that _could_ work."

"When I was a boy, my father always prodded me to get out and play sports when all I wanted to do was read and do chemistry experiments. He always made me feel like I'd let him down by being awful at and uninterested in sports. I don't want my son to feel like he's a failure in my eyes."

"With you at the helm, he couldn't amount to anything less than a success."

"Thank you, Monty. That makes me feel better, actually." He looked to the control panel. "Everything is running smoothly, for now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Monty, I know you already refused my request for time off, but I have to plead my case again. Things have been tense between me and Waylon Junior, and –"

"I'm running a nuclear power plant, not a family counseling center."

"He's been distant with me since summer began. I try to get him to talk to me, but then he accuses me of not really caring about him, so why should he confide in me?"

"Well, that's a hum-dinger of a family crisis you have there."

"He knows I'm not really into musicals and plays, so I want to show him that I care about him, and not just when he's doing things I care about."

"It's a conference on nuclear energy. I need your understanding of the technical details of atomic fissioning."

"But sir, there are a number of people at this plant with backgrounds in nuclear physics and engineering. Why can't one of them take my place at the panel?"

"Yes, but _you_ are the one who designed the plant. You are indispensable and irreplaceable." Burns leaned back in his chair.

"Well, so is my son." He sighed and sat on the edge of the desk, turning to face Burns. "I don't know what to do. Every time I sit him down and tell him I love him no matter what, he starts crying and says he wishes he could believe me. And while I don't really know much about theatre, I can tell he has talent. I really do want to see him perform in H.M.S. Pinafore."

"I can't permit you to skip the conference." Burns leaned forward and said, "How did this quarrel begin, in any event? He's always looked up to you."

"We've always been close, but I don't know about 'looked up to.'"

"Oh, come now. Every boy looks up to his old man. Remember when he built that model of the nuclear plant with his Legos and cardboard cylinders to take with him to Show and Tell? And he brought that little Lego man to represent you and talk about how proud he was of you."

"That was five years ago. You remember that?"

"You were very flattered and kept bringing it up." Smithers Senior smiled at the memory. "So how did this all start?"

"Now that I think of it, he didn't start acting so standoffish until I picked him up from his friend Nora's house after her end-of-school-year party."

"What happened there?"

"Nothing bad, as far as I know. But on the way home, I was asking him if he had a crush on her, because he always talked about her. He got quiet, which I took as a probable 'yes,' and when we got home, I talked to him about sex. I know kids get embarrassed by that stuff, but I don't think that could be why he's acting this way. Could it?"

"Children sulk about piddling matters as commonly as hares breed. I doubt the fault is yours."

"If you were a parent, you'd know why I can't be so confident about that."

"I cannot allow you to take leave until after the panel discussion."

"Very well, sir."

Smithers left the office, and the moment the doors slipped shut, Burn picked up his telephone and dialed a number. "Is this Mr. Tidbury? The man in charge of this summer's Theatre Camp? … Excellent. C. Montgomery Burns speaking. Speaking of your closing performance, you will need to reschedule that for the 19th. … Why? Because I'll ruin you if you fail to comply. … Yes, I thought that would be persuasive."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"So, Waylon, how was your weekend?" said Burns, laying flat on his desk the newspaper he'd had his head in.

"It was... interesting."

"Interesting? How so?"

"There was some awkwardness between Waylon Junior and me."

"Oh, did you catch him sneaking around with a lady-friend? The boy is seventeen; you must realize it's normal for him to have urges."

"No, Monty. My son is gay."

"And this makes you unhappy?"

"No, no – maybe a little. I don't know, it's just not what I was expecting – the signs were there, but when I first held him at the hospital, I had no idea this was what his future had in store..."

"Why wouldn't you want him to be gay? Isn't that what you've always wanted him to be?"

"What would make you think that?"

"Doesn't every father want his son to be gay?"

"Uh, Monty, I don't think you understand me correctly – my son is a homosexual. His friend John is his boyfriend."

"Oh." Silence. "And do you get along with his boyfriend?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." He blinked. "You're not put off by it?"

"You really should know to expect better from a man about town such as I, Waylon." He sips a drink. "So, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Put off by it."

"I don't know."

"In other words, you are."

He sighs a heavy sigh. "I love him so much. I just want to see him happy."

"Is he happy?"

"I think that depends."

"On what does it depend?"

"Me. He needs me to accept him. And even if I don't completely understand what it's like for him, I need to make sure he knows I will always love him."

"I think he does know that. Why else would he trust you enough to tell you while he still lives under your roof?"

"I suppose you're right." He looked at his watch. "On my lunch break, remind me I need to make a phone call."

* * *

Waylon Junior drove home from high school, calling out in an unusually timid, "Mom? I'm home," and setting the textbooks in his arms on the coffee table. "Mom?" He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, and once he'd poured himself a glass and closed the refrigerator door, he saw both his father and mother sitting at the table in the adjoining dining room, four places set at the table. He froze in place, panicking for a moment that they were going to hold an intervention of sorts.

"Waylon, sit down," said his father, and he complied, setting his milk on the table and folding his hands in front of him as if he were a small child again. "I want you to know that I've discussed things with your mother, and you need to know we don't condemn you for your choice in partner. We were a bit speechless at your revelation last night, but now that the shock's worn off, we see there's nothing really to get worked up over. We worry about you, of course – your safety and your happiness most of all – but I can't see any logical reason to oppose you finding love with another man, and I'm glad you trusted us enough to confide in us. If your boyfriend is free for dinner tonight, he's more than welcome to join us at the table."

"I made enough casserole for four," said his mother.

Waylon Junior hugged his mother, then his father. While he hugged his father, his mother took a camera out of her purse and took a photograph.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Mr. Burns slowed his Stutz Bearcat in front of Smithers' Circuit Village and shut the engine off. A little bell rang as he stepped through the door, looking at the radios, televisions, VCRs, computers, and accessories laid out on the shelves.

"Hello, Mr. Burns," said Waylon Junior from behind a glass counter near the entrance. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking to update my computer system at the plant, and your father recommended your store."

"Well, sir, you've come to the right place. We have the latest in personal and corporate computer solutions. We just got the updated version of the Apple Macintosh, with 512 kilobytes of RAM." Seeing the blank stare on Burns' face, he added, "That makes it go faster."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"This computer uses a graphical interface, so you can click on a file to open it instead of inputting text commands." He gestured to a demo Macintosh set up on a display counter, and they approached it, Smithers rounding the side of the counter to stand beside Burns in front of the computer. "See what I mean?" He used the mouse to guide the cursor to a folder icon. "This is called a mouse. You move it against a mouse pad to guide the arrow on the screen. Give it a try." He stepped aside to allow him more room.

Burns moved the mouse around, watching the arrow move correspondingly, inspiring a gleeful chuckle at being able to exert control over the arrow on the screen. "There's no real trick to it, is there?" he said, seeking confirmation as opposed to asking in confusion.

"Marvelous, sir. And if you really want to compute like it's the new millennium, you'll want to try the Kaypro 2000. It's a portable computer that fits right on your lap."

"And how many RAMs does it have?"

Smithers chuckled at his qualifying the word "RAM" as though it were a countable noun. "It has 256k, but you can upgrade it up to 768k."

"So if I upgraded it, it would be better than the Apple?"

"Well, RAM isn't the only measure of how good a computer is. You also have to consider the frequency of the CPU. For the Kaypro, it's 4.77 Megahertz. For the Apple, it's 7.83 Megahertz."

"I see."

"The Kaypro comes loaded with MS-DOS, WordStar, CalcStar..."

"And what does the Apple come with?"

"The Apple Macintosh comes bundled with MacPaint and MacWrite, but you can also run programs like Multiplan on it. That's a spreadsheet program that can make graphs and charts, and very useful for managing businesses. I use it for my business and swear by it."

"Yes, well, that may be well and good for a sole proprietorship, but will it suffice for a large corporation, such as my beloved nuclear plant?"

"Actually, we incorporated last year and are opening a new location in Shelbyville next spring."

"You've only had this business running for a couple of years."

Answering the unspoken _How did you manage that?_ , Smithers said, "You know Gil's Electronics?"

"Yes, it's where I purchased my last radio."

"Just between you and me," he brought his mouth close to Burns' ear and whispered, "I spread rumors that he was selling used computers as if they were new." Restoring his voice to a normal volume, he said, "I was also fairly ruthless in underselling him. When he was going out of business, he sold his remaining inventory to me for pennies on the dollar."

"Sir, I am in awe."

Smithers turned his head away, trying in vain to conceal his bashful blush. "I'm sure you've pulled some devious maneuvers in your day that make mine look like schoolboy pranks."

"Well... yes, but I never made such progress in so short a time. Nor was I so young as you, nor did I start with so little..." He rubbed the back of his neck and averted his eyes. "You'll be a big success." Smithers smiled, and they looked back at each other. "So, how much for these machines?"

"The Apple Macintosh costs $3,200, and the Kaypro 2000 I can let go for just $1,995."

"I will take them both. And I'll want to bring you to the plant to get your opinion on how to improve the plant computer system. How does tomorrow sound?"

"Excellent."

* * *

"I can't believe I'm finally seeing the inner workings of the plant. My dad has told me so much about this place," said Smithers as they walked down a main corridor of sector 7.

"You have the entire day to explore and inspect the facilities. I've given you full security clearance."

"Well, not the entire day. I have to leave by five."

"I thought you said you had the entire day to devote to my plant."

"Yes, but I wanted to surprise John with a special dinner at Le Petit Grenouille for our third anniversary, and the latest reservation I could get was for 5:30."

"John?"

"He's my boyfriend. My father told you about him, didn't he?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course."

"That's not going to be a problem for you, is it?"

"Oh, no, why should it concern me what you do with your private life?"

"Good. Then why don't we take a look at your –"

"I thought you broke up with John years ago."

His eyes widened a bit, caught off-guard. "We got back together a few years ago."

"So you're happy with him?"

Unused to discussing his personal life, he stared out and slowly nodded, then smiled. "Yes. We're happy." He looked down, then said, "So, tell me about your computer set-up..."

"Well, we have a computer with so many vacuum tubes your head would spin trying to count them all."

"I can see this is going to be a long day."

"Oh, well far be it from me to keep you occupied away from your precious Johnny-cakes."

Smithers stopped in the hall. "Mr. Burns, I'm getting some mixed signals from you."

"Why did you two break up before?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I came here to evaluate your electronics systems, not to discuss my love life."

"He was your first boyfriend, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was."

"Tell me what happened."

"We drifted apart. I went to school, studied science and business, while he continued working as a cashier and rummaging through people's garage sales. It seemed like our lives were on separate trajectories."

"What changed?"

"Well, he currently is the owner of a store that specializes in the popular culture oddities he spent his earlier years chasing after and is now making money hand over fist." He added, "That's not why we got back together, though."

"Then why did you?"

"I missed him. Coming home to hear his voice, to a hug."

"Yeesh. I don't need to hear everything."

"If you didn't want to hear, then don't ask."

Burns continued to show him throughout the plant, detailing his computer setup (or lack thereof) between snide remarks about John.

"If you're trying to pull some kind of psychological trick to make me more willing to accept lower compensation, it's not going to work. For each time you've mocked John, I've added a thousand dollars to your bill."

Burns' face soured. "Well played, Waylon." He led him into a large room filled with cubicles and adding machines. "And here is where the drones of Accounting do their computations."

"The drones, sir?"

"You work with machines all day, don't you? Surely you recognize from their soulless gaze that these number crunchers are more automaton than man?"

"I see. Is that how you see my father?"

"What? Oh, good heavens, no. He has the spark of the visionary in his eyes. I see something like it in your eyes, too."

"Hm," muttered Smithers, unimpressed. "I don't see my employees as faceless cogs. If they work hard and do a good job, they deserve a smidgen of respect, don't you agree?"

"You'll see when you get older and have grown your business more."

"I don't appreciate condescension any more than your faceless drones do."

"Sounds like someone is flirting with throwing away a $100,000 commission. And 'faceless' is your addition."

Smithers chuckled. "It's cute you think you can intimidate me."

"Most men would care a great deal about such a sum of money. I would, and do, which is why I won't throw my money around willy-nilly."

"Which is why I know you'll stick with me even if I don't kiss your ass. Because I've got the most attractive package to offer. Of computer systems," he added, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

Burns snickered just enough for Smithers to notice that he'd caught on to his unintended double entendre, just enough to make him sweat. "You do? I'll need you to show me."

Smithers bit his lower lip. If he didn't know better, he'd swear Mr. Burns was flirting with him. Surely there was no harm in reciprocating when it was all in fun. He smiled and lowered his eyeglasses down his nose. "I intend to show you everything I've got." He pushed his glasses back up his nose, then said in a low, seductive voice, "And I've got a lot."

Burns raised his eyebrows, surprised that an accidental innuendo had escalated so quickly. "We'll see about that. Come," he said, leading him away from the accountants and their adding machines. "I need your appraisal of my office computer system."

Once they'd entered his office, Smithers looked around the room, seeing books on shelves, a stuffed polar bear on a stand, a neat and tidy desk, a tall burgundy chair and the expansive glass windows behind it. "Um... what computer system?"

Burns chuckled. "This one," he said, withdrawing a remote control from his interior jacket pocket and pressing a red button, splitting the bookshelves and revealing rows of CRT television screens.

Smithers let out a long whistle of admiration. "Well, sir, this does fall under my purview as an electronics salesman, but technically, that isn't a computer system. It's a closed-circuit television system."

"Oh, save your pedantry for the ham radio geeks."

"What do you want out of your security system?"

"I'd like it to be able to identify and dispatch enemies and loafers independently of my command."

"Hm. I'm afraid that's currently beyond the technical capabilities of... well, anyone. With the possible exception of the CIA, the KGB, or Cher." He hummed thoughtfully to himself, then looked up to Burns' eyes. "How would you like color monitors?"

"Capital idea!"

Smithers pulled out a notepad from his pocket noting the numbers and sizes of the monitor screens. "I'll fix you up with a state-of-the-art CCTV system."

"And if I don't like it?" he said, standing behind his desk, palms pressed firmly on the surface as his neck bent down, his voice tinged with menace.

Smithers tucked his notepad back inside his pocket and suavely sauntered toward the edge of the desk. "Sir, when Waylon Smithers is at your service, your satisfaction is guaranteed."

"I'm going to need that in writing."

Smithers sat on the edge of the desk and leaned toward Burns, almost lying down, propping himself up by his forearm. "Don't you have any room in your heart for trust in your fellow man?"

"No. And no businessman worth his salt has it, either."

"I wouldn't trust just any man."

"Waylon, I am the last man you should trust."

"Why do you say that?"

"You really can't tell?" When Smithers shook his head 'no,' Burns leaned forward out of his seat and pushed their lips together, startling Smithers to the point his arm gave way and he fell with a thud of his shoulder hitting hard oak as Burns ran a hand through his short chestnut hair. Burns lifted his lips momentarily to say, "Sorry," then closed his lips over Smithers' again.

Smithers wrested his mouth away, said, "Mr. Burns, I'm with John. We're as good as married."

"I see. But does he kiss you as well as I do?" He closed in for another kiss, for which Smithers jerked his head back, then paused and closed his eyes, leaned into the kiss.

"Oh, sir. No one could kiss as well as that."

"Please. Call me 'Monty.'"

"Monty, I –" He rapidly sat upright on the desk. "I can't do this. I love John."

"You're attracted to me, though, aren't you?"

He got off the desk and planted his feet on the ground, straightening up his clothes. "I've never been more disgusted with another person in my life."

"But Waylon –"

"Don't you 'but Waylon!' me! You know I've committed to another man. And for the love of God, you're – how old?"

Voice quiet and low, his head drooped sheepishly down as he said, "Ninety-one."

"Ninety-one! And you think you can just hit on all the young salesmen who come through your office doors? Just because you're old and sexy and rich and think nobody will stop you?"

"No, Waylon, it's not like that, not at all..."

"Then what? What is it like?"

"I..."

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't tell my father what transpired here."

"You'd think me a fool if I told you."

"Better that I think you're a fool than a pervert."

"Waylon, you're not like anyone else I've ever met. Not even like your namesake."

"Don't think flattery will win me over."

"I'm certain you'll think me mad, but yesterday in your store, I fell deeply and desperately in love with you."

Smithers' eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Y-you don't know what you're saying..."

"Perhaps not. But I do know what I'm feeling. And I know that, in all those ninety-one years, I've never felt for anyone as I do for you."

"Sir... I'm going to leave, now. Tomorrow, I'll send one of my employees here to set up your Macintosh."

Burns swiveled his chair around to face the window and brought his legs up to the seat and hugged his knees. "I suppose that would be for the best."

"Yes, sir, I think it would."

As Smithers headed for the door, Burns sighed and said under his breath, "If only I still had Bobo..."

Smithers stopped, and without turning around, said, "Bobo, sir?"

"Ah, no! I said, 'pogo'! Yes, that's it. A pogo stick would really lift my spirits."

He walked back to the desk and said, "Tell me about Bobo."

Burns looked into the reflection in the window of Smithers' patient, inquisitive eyes. "I can't say 'no' to those eyes," he said, turning his chair around to face him. "I've never told anyone this, not even your father. Bobo is... was... my teddy bear. I lost him when I went to live with my billionaire grandfather. I tossed him away, and every day of my life since then, I have felt that bitter regret deep in my bones. I couldn't let you go so easily, too, or I would regret it for the rest of my life. Which, as you noted, probably won't last too much longer." His chest heaved in a sigh that threatened to turn into a sob, and Smithers instinctively put a hand around his shoulders and slowly rubbed circles in his shoulder blades.

"Sir – Monty – I'll set up your office computer tomorrow." He slid his hand away from Burns' back.

"You're a dear," he said, sighing in relish of their brief yet tender contact.

"Well... like any businessman worth his salt, I'm not as altruistic as I seem," he said, then closed his eyes and kissed Burns' cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Waylon Junior rapped at the door to Burns' office. "Sir? I'm here to set up your computer."

"Excellent. Come in," he said, and Waylon stepped inside, then slowly, nervously approached his desk with the computer case in hand.

 _Why did I agree to come here? I'm not going to have an affair with him; that would be ridiculous. I'm happy with John... Aren't I? But he's a lonely old man, and if I can bring a little happiness to him in the twilight of his life, why shouldn't I? Not happiness like sleeping with him; I couldn't betray John like that. But a little flirting wouldn't hurt, and it's nice to know he thinks I'm so attractive._

"Waylon, I want to apologize for what happened yesterday."

"That's all right, sir."

"I behaved like a cad, and you deserve better than that. I am sorry."

"Apology accepted. It wasn't entirely your fault, anyway."

"Hm?"

"It takes two to tango. And I did enjoy tangoing with you."

"So you didn't tell your father?"

Smithers' eyes went wide. "Dear God, no! Why would I tell him?"

"You threatened you might."

"If I had told him, he'd wonder why I went back to service you – your office – and I think he'd figure it out pretty quickly."

"He is a sharp one. Kicks my keister at chess damn near every time." A mischievous glint in his eye, he said, "And what exactly are you worried he'll figure out?"

"That I... liked it." He blushed and averted his eyes, then clenched them shut and shook his head. "But that's in the past, now. Nobody needs to know but you and me," he said, leaning over the desk and looking straight into his eyes. "It'll be our little secret."

"Are you good at keeping secrets?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes, I am. Waylon?"

"Yes?"

"Will you keep another?" Smithers slowly and slightly nodded his head. "Good," said Burns, leaning forward and kissing him, standing up once their lips had met and maintaining contact. Once Burns ended the kiss, he said, "Thank you," and sat back in his chair, Smithers still leaning over the desk, his lips still puckered in mid-air.

 _What the hell am I doing? I said I wouldn't let him kiss me again. But he's so damn_ good _at it. I wonder what else he's good at... NO! This is wrong. What am I doing here? Did I really agree to this out of pity for the old man, or some pathetic need for an ego boost?_

"Well, did you come here to set up my computer, or to stand as if waiting at a kissing booth?"

"You have some nerve, Monty." He opened the case and began to move the computer by its handle onto Burns' desk, then set the keyboard with big blocky keys in front of it and set the mouse beside it, then reached for the cord and plugged it in. As he plugged in the paraphernalia, he said, "So, what is it about me that caught your eye?"

"Is that why you came here? To fish for compliments?"

"Maybe."

"Well, in that case, I won't disappoint you." He put his elbow on the desk beside the keyboard. "You are a fit, virile young man, and you possess the noble charm of a duke. You know how to tell the world that you are the one in charge, and you aren't even intimidated by me, even though I could destroy your livelihood with the stroke of a pen. You're obviously intelligent, but you aren't some pompous academic. You're formidable, yet so approachable. And to reiterate, I find you very compelling... physically." He realized Smithers had stopped working on the computer to listen to him. "Why have you stopped work on my computer? What do you think I'm paying you for?"

"Your computer is already running, sir."

Burns' eyes opened wide. "That quickly?"

Smithers smiled and nodded. "That quickly. What do you think I'm charging you thirty-two hundred dollars for?"

"Three thousand dollar mark-up?"

He smirked. "I wish. Here, let me show you how to use it." He guided Burns through word processing and using Finder to navigate to applications, his hand guiding Burns' to move the mouse. He then inserted a 3 ½ inch floppy of Multiplan into the drive. "Ordinarily, this would cost you extra, but I'm throwing it in for free as a perk for being such a good customer." He continued to guide him through the program, explaining how to create spreadsheets with it.

"You know, you don't have to do this just to please your father."

Smithers withdrew his hand from the mouse and sat on the edge of the desk to face Burns. "Do what?"

"This Mr. Technical act. Computers aren't your passion."

"I didn't go into business seeking my dad's approval. I like my job, and I'm good at it, too."

"But you don't love it."

"So? Is nuclear fission your passion? From what Dad says, you don't know much about how it actually works. He's explained it to me so many times, I probably know this plant's reactor better than you do."

"Yes, but I don't need to follow my passion in employment to be happy. You do. You and your father both."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"Wouldn't you be happier pursuing the theatrical arts?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not a very realistic career path for me at this point. How did you know I love musical theater?"

"Your father does talk about you, you know. I saw you in Springfield University's production of Guys and Dolls. You were magnetic."

"Thank you, sir."

"I could fund a show, if you had one you wanted to put on."

Smithers' eyes narrowed. "So that's your game? Offer to fund my dream so I'll agree to sleep with you?"

Burns screwed his face up, genuinely surprised and appalled. "Good heavens, no! I would be ashamed to take a lover I couldn't seduce by my own charms. No, you misunderstand me entirely. Yes, I want you, but I accept your decision to remain faithful to your beau."

"That's very mature of you."

"Well, what do you expect of a ninety-year-old fogey?"

"I thought you said you were ninety-one?"

"You're right, that one year made _all_ the difference in my maturity." He looked determinedly into Smithers' eyes. "I will fund a show for you. No strings attached."

"But Mr. Burns, you never give anyone money."

"I already told you why. I love you, Waylon."

Nervously trying to deflect from confronting his profession of emotion, he said, "I do have an idea for a show. I've been working on it for a few years now. Tell me what you think of –"

"No. This is your project. What matters is that it's something that fires your passion."

"Okay."

"I'd still like to hear about it."

"Oh – well, you'll probably think it's silly, but... I've been working on a musical about Malibu Stacy."

"The doll?"

"Yes. It's based on when I used to play with Malibu Stacy as a kid. It's about her moving to Malibu from someplace out in the sticks after her parents condemn her choice in boyfriend. But by the end, she and her boyfriend save the family business, and her parents welcome them both back into the family."

"You know your father loves you unconditionally."

"Of course I know that."

"You know it, but I don't think you fully appreciate it. My parents didn't love me unconditionally."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I, too, know what it is to be ostracized by peers. The other children picked on me mercilessly, for my physique, my well-bred manners, for anything you can think of. My parents would join in their mocking, and mock me even more for crying when they did. Don't ever take your loving parents for granted."

"I won't." He looked into Burns' eyes, detecting the slightest twinge of a fractured soul in his eyes. "Do you have any pictures from when you were a boy?" Burns nodded and pulled out his wallet, which included a tintype of him at the tender age of four, a scruff of brown hair atop his head and a wide-eyed innocent smile on his face, a fluffy teddy bear as big as his head clutched lovingly against his chest. "Is that Bobo?" Burns nodded sadly. "Aw. How could anyone be mean to such a sweet little boy?"

"I don't know. How could they have been mean to you?"

"I was an easy target for them to tear down. They picked up from their parents the idea that boys like me were scum and beneath –"

"For God's sake, it was a rhetorical question. I don't want to hear about your horrible childhood."

"It wasn't horrible. I mean, a lot of the kids at school were awful, but they weren't all bad. And my parents were fantastic. Especially my dad. He's the one who gave me my first Malibu Stacy. He's the first person I told I was gay – when I was seventeen, almost fifteen years ago. I know plenty of guys my age who still haven't told their parents and never plan to."

"I'm glad to hear it. That your childhood wasn't a complete misery, not about those fellows being compelled to silence."

"I know what you meant."

"Here," said Burns, fishing through his wallet. "I have two tickets to see Carmen tonight, but I won't be able to make it. Why don't you take John?"

"You really mean it?" He took the tickets into his hands.

"Yes. Enjoy yourself. I'll order a nice bottle of wine for you to share at intermission."

"Thank you, Mr. Burns."

"No, Waylon. Thank _you_. You're the first person I've connected with in decades. It pleases me to share this world with you."

"I'm glad we got to talk, too." He looked to his feet, then back up at Burns, who looked at him almost expectantly. "I'd like to talk to you some other time, too."

"Call me after the show," he said, writing his home phone number on the back of his business card and handing it to him.

"I will." Smithers pulled one of his own business cards out of his pocket and wrote his home phone number on the back. "If you ever need computer help after hours, don't hesitate to call." He approached the door, then stopped and turned back. "Maybe we could go to lunch together sometime? I know a good Italian place that just opened, Luigi's – have you been there?"

"That sounds... excellent. I'll put in a reservation. Monday at noon?"

"Great! I'll call you " Smithers walked away, his heart quietly racing as he tried desperately to convince himself that he was anything but infatuated with the old man. He reached for the doorknob, but the door swung in his face, and he had to jump back a half-step to avoid it hitting his nose.

"Son, what a pleasant surprise!" said Waylon Senior patting his shoulders.

"Dad! What are you doing here?" His voice was as panicked as it had been when his father had nearly caught him in his bed fantasizing over a signed photograph of William Shatner as a teenager.

"I got moved to an earlier flight." He studied his son's face. "You look pale as a stick of chalk. Are you feeling well?" He felt Waylon Junior's forehead with the back of his hand.

"Uh, well, I – yes, I'm just – you startled me, that's all."

"No harm done. Did you sell Mr. Burns some computers?"

"Yes, I did."

"How much did it set you back, Monty?"

Burns said, "A hundred-fifty thousand," as casually as though remarking on spending a buck fifty in tip money on his noonday soup.

"What did I tell you? He's a pro. He knows his trade, and he's good with handling money and people. I knew he'd do well." He looked back and forth between Mr. Burns and Waylon Junior, and for a moment they each panicked that he had grown suspicious of them. "I have an idea. Why don't we all go to dinner together?"

Waylon Junior said, "Oh, that sounds great, but Monty gave me and John tickets to the opera..."

"When does it start?"

"Seven."

"Well, it's only four now. We'll have time to catch dinner beforehand."

Burns stood and said, "But John doesn't even know about the tickets yet. They'll need more time to get ready."

"We can pick him up now and all go together."

"But I can't make it tonight," said Burns. "Remember, there's that –" He winked twice at Waylon Senior.

"No, number 7 called and said it was off since 44's 502," he said in a whisper. "Besides, we won't be staying for the show, just for dinner. I'd love for you two to get to know each other better."

Waylon Junior said, "That's good, because we've already gotten pretty close in the last few days."

His father said, "Great! Why don't we try that new Italian place that recently opened up, Luigi's? John likes Italian, doesn't he, Waylon?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, he does."

With that, they all headed for Burns' limousine, Burns and Smithers Junior walking on either side of Smithers Senior, each exchanging furtive glances of apprehension.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

John, Waylon and his father, and Mr. Burns walked into Luigi's together where the owner greeted them in a thick Italian accent. "Welcome to Luigi's! Would you-a like to try today's special?"

Waylon Senior said, "Oh? What's that?"

"A cheese pizza."

"Thanks, but I'd like the chicken fettuccine alfredo."

Mr. Burns said, "And I'll have the veal parmigiana."

"And you?" said Luigi, turning to Waylon Junior.

"Veal parmigiana sounds good to me."

"And I'd like the lasagna," said John.

Mr. Burns said, "And bring us your finest bottle of wine."

"Coming up right away. Our finest wine, for the rich suckers," he said, leaving for the kitchen, where he would fill an empty wine bottle with boxed wine.

Looking to John and Waylon Junior, Burns said, "I hope you're both looking forward to the opera."

John said, "Well, he is," shifting his eyes Waylon's way. "Opera has never really been my thing. _A Chorus Line_ is more my speed. Not that _he'd_ care."

"I assure you, these tickets were an unsolicited gift from me," said Burns.

"Yeah, but this isn't the first time he's dragged me to the opera."

"Oh, but this time will be a real treat. It's _Carmen_ , and singing the lead roles are Thérèse Loiseau and Antonio Verdano. Their voices are heavenly, especially Verdano. Have you heard him in _La Traviata_? He performs stunning feats of the voice with the ease an ordinary man performs his daily ablutions."

"If you're so excited about it, then why don't you watch it with him? It sounds like you'll enjoy it much more than I would."

"But –"

"Why not?" asked Waylon Senior. "That thing," he said, winking, "has been canceled, so you don't have to give up your ticket."

"I suppose..."

"Why did you have two tickets, anyway? You haven't been seeing anyone lately."

 _Damn his interminable curiosity, as valuable an asset as it may be in other times._ "Actually, I bought the tickets as a gift to John and Waylon. I never meant to use them for myself."

John said, "Really? I heard you were a real tightwad – I mean, frugal," he said, catching Waylon Senior's nervous warning glance.

Burns chuckled reassuringly to Waylon Senior. "Yes, I do have a habit of pinching my pennies. But this man has given me so many years of good and faithful service," he said, patting the back of Waylon Senior's shoulder, "that his family has earned a special place in my heart."

"And it doesn't bother you at all that we're queer?"

 _That would be most hypocritical, now wouldn't it?_ He shook his head slightly to and fro, then interlocked his fingers and rested his chin upon them. "Not at all. I believe in pursuing what your heart desires. If my heart desires another million dollars, am I wrong to seek it out? And if a man's heart should desire another man, is he wrong to seek him out? I have no time for such foolish asceticism." He reached one of his legs out in front of him below the table to brush his ankle against Waylon Junior's.

John took Waylon Junior's hand in his and intertwined their fingers. "There's something we can all agree on."

"Amen," said Waylon Senior. "So, Monty, how is your new computer system?"

"State of the art," said Burns. "I hope you appreciate how truly remarkable your son is."

"I am a lucky father. As a child, he was so well-behaved, always on honor roll. That kid always had his nose to the grindstone."

"Still do," said Waylon Junior.

"So," said Burns, turning to John, "How did you two meet?"

"We were in high school, actually. He was a junior, and I was a sophomore. Some guys had ganged up on him in the locker room after P.E. and stolen his clothes. I gave him an extra shirt and a clean pair of gym shorts, and as they say, the rest is history."

"Hm. I see. So you had a happy high school romance?"

"Pretty much, yeah," said Waylon Junior while John simultaneously said, "Well, not exactly." They looked at each other, noting the discordance in their responses. Waylon Junior said, "What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

"You were, well, kind of a stick in the mud."

"A stick in the – how so?"

"You never wanted to stay out late, for one thing..."

"I had my curfew."

"...and you were so afraid of someone catching us and finding out, it was months before I got past first base with you."

"You can't blame me for being cautious."

"And you can't blame me for getting a little frustrated sometimes."

"And you can't blame me for getting frustrated with you sometimes, too."

"What do _I_ do to frustrate _you_?"

"Just last night, you left the spices out of the spice rack again."

"Oh, God, not this again..."

"I spent a whole afternoon optimizing the arrangement of the spices and applying labels above each slot."

"I wasn't the one who told you to waste an afternoon."

"I was just trying to make things run smoother in the kitchen."

"You should focus instead on making things run smoother in the bedroom," John snapped, then pursed his lips sheepishly. "But, uh, we can discuss this later." Luigi brought in a bread basket and a bottle of wine. "Look, the food is here!"

"It's-a just the bread. Your meals are on-a their way."

Nevertheless, everyone took some bread and began to eat it, if only to have an excuse to avoid talking, at least until John swallowed his mouthful and turned sharply to Waylon, said, "And will you quit playing footsie with me? I'm not in the mood."

Burns' face fell, and Waylon Junior dawned a quizzical expression. "What? I haven't been –" He peered beneath the tabletop and saw Burns quickly retracting his foot back to his side of the table, and John's eyes fixed on Burns.

Waylon Senior turned toward Burns, his chair scooting back as he said, "Monty?"

"Oh, no, it's not what it seems!" Burns scrambled for words. "I wasn't hitting on your son's boyfriend."

"Then you were... hitting on my son?"

"No, I was merely, uh, trying to – to scrape some gum off my shoe, and –" Seeing nobody was buying it, he abandoned the train of thought and said, "Oh, dear God," as he collapsed his forehead into the palms of his hands. "Forgive me, Waylon – both of you," he said, rising so rapidly from his seat that the chair skidded and nearly toppled over as he rushed for the exit.

"Monty, wait!" said Waylon Junior, running after him.

Waylon Senior said, "He _is_ our ride."

Outside the restaurant, standing in front of the great glass windows of the front, Waylon Junior grabbed Burns by his elbows, said, "Monty, don't go."

"Haven't I done enough to screw up your life?"

"I thought you said you were content to let me be with John."

"I tried. I really tried to be happy for you two, but every second I spent in your company, I couldn't help but think I would make you much happier."

"You may be right, but there's no use entertaining 'what-if's. I ended up with John, and just because we're having a rough patch doesn't mean I should abandon him."

"I understand."

"Thank you."

"It's a painful understanding, though. It's precisely that kind of loyalty that makes me love you more." He looked into his own reflection in Waylon's eyeglasses. "Regardless of how you feel about me, I will love you for the rest of my days. I will love you as no one has loved another."

Waylon's cheeks reddened, and he looked to his feet. "I wish I could say I feel that way about you. But I can't. Maybe if we'd gotten to know each other five or ten years ago... but like I said, what's the point in speculating?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Now let's go back inside, hm?"

"Are you out of your head? What on Earth shall I say?"

"We're all mature adults. I'm sure they'll understand."

"I don't know how I'll ever face your father again."

"He's a reasonable man, you know that."

"Fine. I'll go if you say I should, but this portends nothing but disaster."

"Here's a hint, Monty – it couldn't get worse than that scene in there."

"You are charmingly naive in your youth."

They walked back inside, Burns carefully averting his eyes as he seated himself between his two Smitherses.

"So, Monty," said Waylon Senior, "would you favor us with an explanation?"

"I..." _It was a lapse in judgment. I really was trying to scrape gum from my shoe. It was a muscle spasm._ It was useless. However probable and convincingly told an excuse, his old friend would never buy it, for he already knew the truth. "I'm in love with your son." He closed his eyes. "I love him more than words can express."

"He's _my son_ , Monty. My son is off-limits." He glanced at John and added, " _And_ he's in a committed relationship. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking. Only feeling."

"You're too old to use a young man's excuse. Too old for my son, in any case."

"Dad, don't say that."

"He's sixty years older than you, Waylon."

"But that's not why I'm rejecting him; I'm rejecting him because I'm with John."

"I see."

"Hasn't he suffered enough from unrequited love? I don't see why we should castigate him for it."

"All right. How about we all go home now? We can take our food to-go." He stood, and as Luigi came in to bring the food to them, he explained that they wanted to take it home and paid the check. Burns first drove John and Waylon Junior home with the opera tickets, then drove to Waylon Senior's home. When he pulled into the drive, Waylon turned to him and said, "Monty. We need to talk."

Burns shut the engine off and said, "Yes."

"So," he said, sighing and looking around. "How long has this been going on?"

"How long? I just played with his feet. Or tried to, in any event."

Waylon shook his head. "No. You don't just out of the blue play footsie with a man. So tell me: how long?"

"Just a few days."

"You are much too old for him. If you really love him and want him to be happy, you'll leave him alone so he can build his life with John."

"That was my intention. That's why I gave them the opera tickets I'd originally bought for Waylon and myself. But the entire time we were together this evening, each time I looked into your son's face and his eyes caught mine, I saw longing. I don't know why, or how, but he wants me. Perhaps as much as I want him."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Yes. When he said the reason he rejected you was because he's with John, I could tell that was his only reason. Listen, Monty, you listen to me carefully. I've watched them over the years, and they've had some arguments, but in general, they have a good relationship going. I won't stand and watch you foul up my son's chance at happiness because you've suddenly become attracted to him."

"I can make him happy."

"For how long?" His eyes scrunched shut as he thought of his close friend passing. "A year? A decade? It's doubtful, but even if you lived that long, he'd be forty-one when you die. Would you make my son a widower before he's even reached middle age?"

Tears flowed from Burns' eyes as he pictured the anguish in his beloved's eyes as his body lowered into its eventual final resting place. As the tears left, all that remained was a stark and silent fear. "No. I don't suppose I could put him through that."

"You know what you have to do, then." He got out of the car, then made his way to the driver's side and said, "Remember, it's for his sake," then went inside.

Burns drove back to his home, rehearsing the telephone conversation in his head, fine-tuning the phrasing he wanted to use to break off his limited engagement, and was so immersed in his internal dialogue that he nearly ran over a man on a street corner. "Smithers!" He slammed the brakes, then shifted gears to reverse and rolled backward, nearly running over Waylon Junior again, his right rear wheel smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. Burns rolled the window down casually and said, "What brings you here?"

"I was on my way to your house, but I wanted to pick these up first," he said, revealing a dozen red roses from behind his back and then climbing into the passenger seat. As Burns took the flowers in his hands, Smithers said, "Monty, I want you, and to hell with what anyone thinks." He grabbed Burns' shirt collar and pulled his head close for a kiss. They shared a desperate kiss until seconds later, Burns pulled away. "What's wrong?"

"Waylon..."

"Yes?" He kissed Burns' neck in a couple of spots just above the collar bone.

"We cannot do this."

"Why not? I'll break up with John, because I choose you."

"Your father is right. I am too old for you."

"I don't care about how well you perform. As long as you're happy and I'm with you."

"I don't mean that! And I can 'perform' just fine, thank you."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I can't have much time left to live. Don't waste your youth on me."

"Waste? I would surrender an eternity of happiness to be with you for one short day."

"Please, go. Before this gets any harder."

"But –"

"Take these," he said, handing back the flowers, "and give them to John. Tell him you love him and you're sorry, and for God's sake, get off his back about the damned spices. You'll give him a back rub, and you'll go to sleep together and wake together, and you'll do the same thing for years. When I'm cold in my grave and you're sleeping beside a warm body, promise you'll thank me for what I've done for you."

"But Monty –"

"Go!" Waylon wordlessly left the limousine, roses in hand, and had scarcely shut the door before Burns had sped away, but above the roar of that vintage luxury engine, he was sure he had heard Burns' plaintive plea for his precious teddy bear.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The following week, Burns' secretary informed him that Waylon Smithers, Jr. had arrived to install the color security monitors, and he called up Smithers Senior to his office.

"Your son is here," he said, rising out of his chair. "He'll be up shortly to install the new monitors. Make sure he knows my offer to fund his show still stands." He headed for the door. "I'll be in the executive study, should you need me," he said as he rounded the corner and shut the door.

Within a few minutes, Waylon Junior arrived, a plant worker drone following him, dragging in a large crate of CRT monitors on a dolly. "Dad," he said, startled. "What are you doing here?"

"I do work here still." His father dismissed the dolly drone and closed the door, saying, "Monty thought it best that you two not be alone together during the installation."

"Oh."

Waylon Junior got to work replacing and rewiring the new security monitors and was well on his way to finishing when his father broke the silence. "I have to ask – what do you see in him?"

"There's a... he has a... I don't know what."

"You were going to leave John over an 'I don't know what'?"

"It's not just that. He's a very attractive man."

"You're really attracted to him?" His son nodded, and he said in utter perplexity, "Why?"

"I don't know; he just does it for me."

"So it's just a physical thing? And please – don't tell me how far you went with him."

"It's more than that. I looked deep into his eyes and there's something – something sensitive and sweet, something buried beneath the surface. I've only caught a glint in the corner of my eye, but from the little I've seen, I know it must be unimaginably beautiful."

"I'll be honest with you, Monty is not what I'd consider boyfriend-material. He is my friend, and he has his redeeming qualities, but he's damaged. He can be insensitive, cruel even, and he's not very warm or affectionate. You deserve better than to assume the burden of trying to heal wounds that have had nearly a century to fester."

"I don't have some kind of caretaker complex. That's not why I like him."

"Then why?"

"When he talks to me or touches me, he has this sincerity – I feel like we have this instant bond, almost a spiritual connection. When we're together, I feel like I'm touching his soul. I know it sounds corny, but I don't know how else to describe it. We see each other; we know each other; we love each other."

"I see. Son, if you really feel you must pursue him, I won't try to stop you. I think it would be a mistake, but I wouldn't disown you. It's your life, after all. I want you to make the most of it."

"Thanks, but the point is moot, now. I'm not going after him. I made up with John, and I realized Monty was right – if I can be happy with a man my own age, that's for the best."

"That's probably a wise decision."

"Is he... He's not too broken up about me, is he?"

"He's tough. He'll manage well enough."

"Good."

When Waylon Junior had finished installing the monitors and was about to leave, his father said, "Oh, and Monty told me to tell you that he'll still fund your show."

"He did say his offer had no strings attached."

"Have a good day," he said, waving his son off.

"I will," he called out, closing the door.

Once the door was closed, Waylon Senior rested the palm of his hand on one of the newly-installed monitors. "What if I'm wrong, and I've just torn my son from his soul-mate?" He bristled at the thought of Mr. Burns making romantic overtures at his son.

Meanwhile, from the comfort of his executive study, Burns watched and listened from his hidden monitoring screens as the one he loved most dearly walked out of his life forever.

* * *

"So, how was your Thanksgiving, Waylon?" said Burns to his trusted confidant, who had recently turned eighty.

"It was a nice, low-key affair. John and Waylon invited Hattie and me over to their place. My son is a fantastic cook. I never realized you could do so many different things with yams."

Burns smiled. "How are they?"

"They're doing well."

"He's happy, you'd say?"

"Yes, Monty, he seems very happy."

"Good. I'm glad. I suppose I did the right thing after all, then." He slouched forward, resting his head on his desk. "But then, somehow I've always known I was meant to die alone. At least he doesn't have to."

"You really care about him, don't you?"

"Yes. I do."

"You did the right thing." He patted Burns' shoulder reassuringly. "There's a reason I call you 'friend.'" He stepped back, withdrawing his hand. "I trust I'll see you at the premiere?"

"I wouldn't miss it for all the uranium in Canada." Waylon Senior gave him a knowing, critical look, pressing him to be honest. "All right, so I would for that."

"I'm going to leave now, so I can get ready for the show," he said, approaching the door.

"Waylon, what on Earth compels you to keep working so long past retirement age?"

"The reactor here is almost like a second child to me. It's my passion. What about you? What compels you?"

"That's a fool question. The money, of course."

"No. Not the money – the power."

They smiled at his pun. "You know me too well, dear friend." With that, Waylon Senior shut the door, and Burns swiveled around in his chair to gaze out the window, where he watched Waylon Senior emerge a few minutes later into the parking lot and drive away.

* * *

Now wearing a tuxedo, Burns arrived at the Springfield Playhouse at six and seated himself at the bar, where he ordered a martini. Once he'd taken a couple of sips, he noticed a harried Waylon Junior pacing near the entrance of the theatre. He called out, "Waylon, is something the matter?"

He stopped stock still in his tracks, his eyes rapidly widening. After a moment, he turned his head gradually toward Burns at the bar, and his eyes enlivened again as they sighted Burns. "Mr. Burns, I'm so glad you could make it," he said, walking briskly toward him and extending his hand, inviting him for a handshake. "How the hell have you been? I haven't seen you in over a year."

"I'm excellent, thank you. Your father says you're doing quite well, too, you and John. I'm glad to hear it."

Waylon's eyes grew downcast. "Um, Monty," he said, his voice faltering. "Why don't you come backstage with me? Let me show you what you're paying for."

Burns shook his head. "Not what I'm paying for – what I'm investing in." Seeing a quiet urgency in Waylon's eyes, he said, "Yes, show me," and Waylon put his arm around Burns' shoulders, guiding him along the way to the backstage, martini still in his hand. Once they got behind the curtain, however, Waylon kept guiding him past the set pieces and actors to his private dressing room. He ushered Burns in, then closed the door. "What did you want to show me that's in here?"

"It's nothing that I want to show you. It's something I have to tell you." Burns looked attentively into his weary, bloodshot eyes and set his martini down on the counter in front of the lighted mirror. Waylon looked into the mirror image of Monty's eyes. "John left me," he said, wincing.

"What? But your father just told me you were very happy at Thanksgiving. What the devil could have happened in a week?"

"We weren't happy. It was an act. John had told me he was leaving me for another man the day before Thanksgiving, and I didn't want to ruin the holiday for my parents. John agreed to act like a happy couple for the day." He sniffled. "I took your advice and stopped harping on stupid little things like spices years ago. I don't know where this came from. Where did I go wrong? Am I losing my looks?"

"He was having an affair?"

Waylon nodded. "For six months, and I never had a clue. I feel like such a fool."

"No. He's the fool, Waylon, to turn you away. There's no sense in you blaming yourself. He cheated on you; you should be getting angry with him."

He snorted derisively. "That would be hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?"

"How so?"

"You know..."

"Oh, pish tosh! That was four years ago, and we only flirted for two days. It's hardly comparable to a six-month dalliance which I presume was consummated." He reached for his martini and held it to Waylon's lips. "Drink. It will do you good."

He took a few gulps and then shook his head, looking to the floor. "I don't know how I'm going to go on."

"Don't be so melodramatic. Lovers come and go, but you'll find the strength to keep living."

"I meant I don't know how I'm going to perform in my musical tonight with this all weighing on my mind on opening night. How can I play the confident, handsome Tad when I feel so ugly and unloved?"

Monty took Waylon's hands and sat in a chair, prompting Waylon to sit in the chair beside him. He caressed the tops of Waylon's hands and said, "You will be magnificent."

"You're just saying that."

"It's the truth. Waylon," he said, touching his cheek and stroking his earlobe with an index finger, "you are as beautiful as Michelangelo's _David_."

He bashfully smiled and said, "I assure you, I'm better endowed than that."

"I'm certain you are."

"Do you... still feel about me the way you did four years ago?"

"Yes. If anything, our distance has only grown my longing for you."

He ran his hands from Monty's knees to his hips and stared determinedly into his eyes. "If I suggested we fool around before the show, would you –"

"Yes," he said, curling his fingers around Waylon's neck and kissing him.

Pulling back, he said, "I wasn't finished. Would you be okay if it was a one-time thing? Purely physical, no strings attached?"

Monty tightened his lips momentarily, his eyes uncertain, then closed them and nodded, saying, "I accept your terms," before kissing him again.

He pulled back once more and said, "Then let's do it."

* * *

As Waylon sat in front of the mirror adjusting his black wig, Monty stood behind him and put a blue jacket on him, then hugged him with one arm as he pressed their cheeks together. "You were right. You are well-endowed. A fine specimen of man." He ran his hand up and down Waylon's shoulder a few times and kissed him before backing away and seating himself in the chair beside him.

"You're a fine specimen yourself."

"Well, you wouldn't be the first to fall under the influence of the famous Burns charm." He leaned on the counter. "So, have I succeeded in allaying your insecurities?"

"You've succeeded in a lot more than that, Monty."

"What else should I have expected? I am a successful man." He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "What else have I succeeded in?"

"I know I said this would be strictly physical, but after the show... What would you say if I asked you to join me for dinner at Le Petit Grenouille?"

"I'd say I think you have your courting rituals mixed up if you're waiting to ask me to dinner until after you've already bedded me, but nonetheless, I'd be delighted."

"Great."

Someone banged on the dressing room door. "Waylon, the show starts in thirty; what's been keeping you so long?" It was Yvonne Belmont, the blonde actress portraying Malibu Stacy.

"I've just, uh, been a little busy." Monty rolled his eyes at the lack of attempt at formulating an excuse.

"Can you get out here soon?"

"Uh, sure. I'll be right out," he said, opening the door. He motioned for Monty to join him.

"And who might he be?" she asked.

"Oh, this is Monty – Mr. Burns. He's a friend of my father's."

"I'm also the one financing this operation, so you'd better not screw this up for us," he said, eyes narrowing menacingly as he shook a fist toward her.

"Uh, Monty, maybe you'd better leave the directing to me. Go take your seat; the show will start soon."

"Very well. Break a leg," he said, leaving for the auditorium and his seat in front row center. No sooner had he sat down, Waylon Senior and Hattie arrived.

"Hello, Monty."

He startled, then looked and saw his old friend take the seat next to him and his wife take the seat next to that. "Hello, Waylon," he said with a sheepish jitter to his voice. "Isn't it remarkable? Soon, your son's lifelong dream is going to come true before our eyes."

"He deserves this so much. Thank you for financing the show. I know it's been hard for you."

"Why, yes, it certainly has." He dabbed at his sweating forehead with a handkerchief.

"Where is John?" said his mother.

"Oh, I'm sure he's just getting a refreshment," said his father. "After the show, why don't we all go to dinner together?"

"As tempting as your offer is, I'm afraid I'll be much too tired."

"Well, maybe some other time, then."

They chit-chatted for another twenty minutes until the house lights went dark and the show began. The musical numbers were toe-tapping and emotive, the characters engaging, and dialogue full of humorous banter. Waylon Junior performed with energetic confidence and a stunning ability to inhabit his character. Monty marveled at how little the man on the stage resembled the broken spirit he'd followed backstage an hour earlier.

At intermission, he bought a dozen red roses in a bouquet, and Waylon Senior and Hattie bought a few loose roses each. Waylon's parents speculated as to John's whereabouts, Burns proffering plausible explanations. Once the performance had ended and Waylon Junior had taken his final bow, they threw their roses at his feet, and he collected them before the curtain finally fell.

They met him backstage, and Waylon Junior said, "You all embarrassed me; I got even more roses than the star!"

His mother said, "Why don't we go out to dinner?"

Looking to Monty, he said, "Oh, no thanks. I just want to go home and rest. We've still got seven more performances."

His father said, "I can see why you'd want to rest. I can't imagine going out and performing night after night."

"It is pretty exhausting. But thrilling. Completely worth it."

"John never arrived. Did he tell you anything?"

Waylon Junior's eye twitched slightly. "Oh, yeah, uh, he had, uh, food poisoning. Nothing serious; he'll be okay in a day or so."

"Sorry to hear that," said his mother. "Tell him we wish him well."

"I'll tell him," he said, forcing a strained smile. "I really need to get home and rest."

His father said, "I won't keep you, then. Congratulations, son. I'm so happy I lived to see your dream come true." He hugged him, and his mother took a photograph.

"You were wonderful," said his mother, hugging him. "You are so creative, and I am very proud of you. We have always been proud of you."

Once they left, Monty said, "Why did you not tell your parents?"

"It was bad enough getting through the performance knowing what happened; the last thing I wanted was to bring my parents in on my grief."

"I see. Do you still want to go to dinner, or are you really too tired?"

"I've had a long, exhausting day. I really just want to go to bed. I'm sorry, we'll –"

"No need for apology." Lowering his voice, he said, "Is John still at your place, or has he moved out?"

"Well, he's sleeping at Julio's apartment, but most of his stuff is still there. Every room is filled with reminders of what we used to have together."

"Do you want to sleep at my home tonight?" Noticing he was taken aback by the suggestion, he quickly added, "You'd have your own room, of course."

He followed Monty to Burns Manor in his own car, and Monty showed him to a guest room and pulled open the doors to a bureau to retrieve a guest robe for him to change into. He left the room and closed the door, but he had only been gone for a few minutes before getting the distinct feeling he ought to go back. He opened the door and, noting that Waylon's cheek shone with the gloss of a rogue tear, walked up to him and sat on the bed beside him, ran his hand up and down his back that was now clothed in the smooth cotton robe.

"I know this is difficult. But remember you did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve this."

"I know, but it doesn't make it hurt any less."

"I can't abide the thought that he is probably living it up with his new lover while you sit there fending off tears."

"I loved him, Monty, I really did. You don't know how much I loved him."

"Is there anything I could do for you?" They looked into each others' plaintive eyes, and when Monty smiled the slightest of smiles, Waylon responded in kind, and they hugged, chins on each others' shoulders. After a full minute of hugging, Monty said, "That's a nice cologne. What is it?"

"Sandalwood." Waylon sniffed Monty's neck. "You smell good, too. What is that smell?"

"I'm not wearing any cologne."

Waylon pressed his nose against his neck and inhaled slowly and deeply. "No, I smell something." Monty began to sweat in a self-conscious panic. "It's very nice." He sniffed again. "It's...enchanting."

"You really think so?"

"Yes. You have an enchanting musk."

They held each other for a few more minutes, punctuating the silence with sensuous remarks until Waylon yawned, and Monty gently pushed him back onto the bed, their arms still wrapped around each other. It was only a few minutes before both had fallen fast asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Waylon Junior awoke to the comforting pressure of Monty's slumbering body draped over his. Sunlight had filled the room through translucent curtains and the criss-cross of window bars. He closed his arms over Monty, prompting a sleeping smile from him. "Monty? It's morning."

His eyes eased open, unfocused for a moment before latching onto Waylon's gaze. "I'm not used to seeing you without your glasses."

"And I can't see you without my glasses." He reached for the nightstand and replaced his spectacles. "That's better."

"What do you want for breakfast? Some form of meal? Eggs Benedict? Crepes? My servants will make absolutely anything."

"Eggs Benedict sounds good. And some coffee."

Monty picked up a bedside phone and dialed an extension. "Coffee and Eggs Benedict for the Sunshine Room. Serving two." He hung up the phone and turned to Waylon. "They'll be here shortly with our breakfast." He stood and sat on a burgundy chair at the bedside. "I enjoyed holding you last night. If only we could have shared the night under more felicitous circumstances."

"We were together for seven years, and that's not counting high school. I thought we would grow old together."

"I'm so sorry. I thought so, too. I've never been in such a long relationship, myself." He clenched his jaw and fist and said in anger, "How could he do this to you? How could anyone hurt you like this?" He stroked Waylon's cheek.

"I guess I just couldn't make him happy. We had some problems... in bed."

"I fail to see how he wouldn't be satisfied by you."

"Well, he wasn't."

"You satisfied me."

Waylon smiled inwardly. "I'm glad."

He paused in stroking his cheek. "You found me satisfactory, yes?"

"Definitely. You were the best I've had in ages."

"Good, good. I aim to excel." He began to stroke behind his ear, nudging his glasses slightly off-kilter. "So, he didn't do enough for you, either?"

"No, he was good. But you were better."

A few minutes later, the servants arrived with a breakfast cart, and Monty withdrew his hand. The servants set a breakfast tray over Waylon's lap and another over the arms of the chair Monty sat in, then left, shutting the door behind them. Monty stood with his tray and sat on the bed beside him, and there they enjoyed breakfast, talking together about the recent events of their lives, primarily the success of their businesses and the failure of their relationships.

"You're still young," said Monty. "You have plenty of time to find a new man. Given your success and your good looks, you might want to invest in a stick to beat them off with."

"About that... I think I've already found him."

"What? That quickly? Who?"

" _You_ , Monty," he said, nudging his cheek with his nose.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said, sitting up.

"But I know what I'm feeling," he said, grabbing his wrist. "Come on, Monty. If we had listened to our feelings four years ago, that's four years we would've had together. Let's not waste any more time."

"I won't be able to grow old with you."

"We're not getting married. We can just have fun together, for however long it lasts."

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you? Knowing I might drop dead tomorrow?"

"Of course it doesn't bother me." Realizing how insensitive it sounded, he hastened to add, "I mean, that's all the more reason I should get to know you while I still can." Waylon stacked their breakfast trays on the cart, then sat back in the bed with him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "So, what should we do today?"

"Well, I have some wonderful stereopticon images of the Crimean War."

"You'll have to show me." They went to the media room, where Monty showed him his collections of war pictures and a collection of pictures of natural scenes.

While rummaging through his collections of pictures and films, he came across a 16 mm reel and said, "Join me at the projector," pointing to the 16 mm film projector circa 1950. While he loaded the film in, Waylon sat in a comfortable movie theater chair, and once the film was running, Monty sat beside him.

On the screen played scenes of Smithers Senior at Springfield University working on plans for the plant, of him at the site and demonstrating operation of the reactor. Then the picture cut to his office, where Smithers Senior held in his arms his infant son, who reached out and grabbed Burns' nose, provoking irritation before he smiled warmly at the camera. Then it cut to a family event at the power plant, where Waylon Junior was about five years old, playing with his Malibu Stacy doll. The camera panned over to Smithers Senior, who waved at the camera and kissed his wife's cheek as his son ran up to him and hugged his leg and saying without sound, "I love you, Daddy."

The film cut out. "I hadn't seen that in decades." He closed his hand around Waylon's wrist and looked into his placid, happy face. _Should I tell him what happened – or almost happened – thirty-nine years ago? Or would he only think I'm a lunatic?_ He gave a slight squeeze and smiled when he met his eyes.

"Do you have any more old home movies?"

"Yes, I do. Mostly from when your father was designing the plant."

"I gather you don't have any home movies from your childhood."

"No, and I have no reason to revisit my childhood."

"You must have some good memories from then."

He stopped to think. _There was that time I crippled that Irishman._ He chuckled. _And I was happy before I lost Bobo._ His eyelids lowered. "Some, yes."

"Tell me one."

"All right. I had recently turned four and was at the county fair. Oh, I engaged in some mirth-making that day, feeding goats and chasing pigs. Then, I saw a ring toss stand. There were harmonicas and hair-bows, dolls, and teddy bears. I wanted the teddy bear the moment I laid eyes on it, more than anything. I tried time and again until I ran through the money my parents had given me. I spent five whole dollars trying to win it. When I saw my parents, I asked them for more money so I could keep trying to win it, but instead they chastised me for spending so much money so quickly on a single game. Back then, five dollars was worth much more than it is now. I burst into tears, but they showed no sympathy. The man operating the game, however, took pity on me, and he gave me the bear."

"Bobo."

"Yes, Bobo."

"You really loved that bear, didn't you?"

Monty nodded slowly, and Waylon stroked the back of his hand. "I did. The day I lost him... something in me died." He laid his other hand on top of Waylon's. "Do you still have your first Malibu Stacy?"

"Yes."

"Good. Hold onto her. Don't make the same mistake I did."

"I won't."

After a minute of silence, Monty said, "So, when do you plan to tell your parents?"

"About... us? Or..."

"You and John. They will console you as only loving parents can."

"You're more than enough consolation."

"No. He hurt you, and spending all your time with me will only delay your confronting that fact."

"I guess you're right. I have been avoiding telling anyone because it forces me to accept that it's really... over." He fought back a tear. "I'll tell them tonight."

"Do you intend to tell them about us, as well?"

"I don't see why I should. Who knows if things will even work out between us long-term? Why should we complicate our fun?"

"I like the way you think," he said, eyes brightened. "But perhaps you should tell them this afternoon. It's bad for your health to bottle up such a secret about the breaking of such a deep bond."

"It can wait," he said, intertwining their fingers.

"It's already waited a week. Go to them now."

"All right," he said, withdrawing his hand and standing up. "Oh, and if you're up for giving me another back-stage 'pep talk' tonight..."

"I'll be at your dressing room at six."

Adopting a commanding presence, he firmly laid the palm of his hand against Monty's cheek and said, "See that you are," then took leave of him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"I've just finished reviewing the inspectors' reports. Everything is working, but some of these pipes are very old and due for replacing soon," said Waylon Senior.

"Trying to finagle another upgrade, are you?"

"Well... It could save you a lot of money in the long-run, sir. If an employee suffered an injury, you could be on the hook for a million dollars."

"You run a tight ship, Smithers. Is that why you've kept at this job so long, to cudgel me into making repairs on this old place?"

"Just think about it, will you?" he said as he headed for the office door. "Good night, Monty."

Waving him off, he said, "Good night, Waylon." After he heard the ding of the distant elevator leaving the floor, he dialed his telephone. "Hello, Waylon? Your father is leaving now, and I'm going to be here awhile sifting through paperwork. If you could stop by... Excellent." He hung up the phone and reclined in his chair. He almost nodded off to sleep when he heard the buzzer sound.

"Monty?" came his voice over the intercom. "It's me."

"Come in," he said, straightening his tie. As Waylon Junior stepped in, his lips tightened into a smile. "It's so good to see you."

"I'm glad to see you, too," he said, leaning over the desk and kissing the corner of his mouth, then backing up a bit to take more careful aim and shared a kiss.

"I hope you're not too strained running your business with all the nights you've been spending here with me."

"No, I've delegated most of the tasks. After all, what good is getting rich if you can't enjoy it?"

"Now, that's what I like to hear!" Waylon wiped some sweat from his brow. "You _are_ tired. Come to the executive washroom with me."

"I'm really fine, I –"

"We need to get you out of those clothes. It isn't healthy to stay in clothes caked with the day's grime."

"Well, if it's for my health..."

Monty led him to his private washroom, where he ordered Waylon to undress and ease himself into the bathtub. He rolled up his sleeves, took a sponge in his hand, and gently scrubbed, beginning with his cheeks. They stared into each others' eyes, the only sound between them the seductive squish of sponge against skin, until Waylon spoke.

"Monty," he said in a quiet, breathless ecstasy, "I know I said we didn't have to commit to anything, but ... I love you, Monty."

He stopped sliding the sponge across his cheek, letting it droop just below Waylon's jaw. "I'm in love with you, too, Waylon." He dropped the sponge into the water. "I truly... love you."

Waylon sat up and caught his lips, the rush of water filling the void masking a little gasp of surprise from Monty. Waylon separated their lips and said low in his ear, "Why don't you take off your clothes and come in? There's plenty of room."

"Ah ah ah," he chided. "First things first!" He went to a nearby minibar and opened a bottle of champagne and brought two crystal champagne flutes. He poured some in each glass and handed both to Waylon as he undressed, then took it again once he'd settled lying against him in the bath. "To us, my beloved."

They clinked glasses. "To us." Each took a long sip from his glass. "I guess we can't keep this a secret anymore."

"Why on Earth not? There's no reason your father should know of our affair."

"For one thing, I don't want to. When I came out to my parents, it was so I wouldn't have to sneak around pretending I'm someone I'm not. For another, my parents have been trying to set me up, and it's getting harder to tell them good excuses for why I'm not dating. They think I'm still struggling to move on from John."

"No. Your father would never speak to me again."

"Do you love me?" He placed his hand over Monty's heart and awaited its next thump.

"Of course I do." His heart beat with an excited flutter.

"And he'll see that. That's all he really cares about, that you love me and treat me well."

"I suppose you're right. He is a reasonable man; he'll understand."

They sat in the bath together, sipping champagne until the water grew too chill and they stepped out, Waylon retrieving towels and first drying and warming Monty, for he was far more vulnerable to cold. They dressed and moved back into the office, where they took to the desk and kissed with abandon. "We just got back into these clothes," said Waylon, "and now it seems you want to get me back out of them."

"My motives are transparent as cellophane, it's true." The elevator dinged down the hall, diverting Monty's attention.

"M... what's wrong? Did –"

"Shush!" Footsteps sounded down the empty corridor.

A voice carried through the walls, whistling absent-minded.

In a hushed whisper, Monty said, "It's your father!" He grabbed Waylon by the wrist and dragged him away from the desktop to his chair. "Here," he said, gesturing under the desk. "It's my personal trapdoor for when I am the one who needs to make a quick exit. It's a comfortable ride," he said, reaching for a green button.

"Wait, didn't we agree to tell him about us?"

"Yes, but it would hardly do for him to find out from the hickey on your neck!"

"Right," he said, crouching under the desk while Monty pressed the button, and a section of floor dropped away, taking Waylon with it.

The office door opened, and Waylon Senior stepped inside. "Monty? Is someone else here?"

"No, I was just muttering to myself," he said, straightening a stack of papers on his desk. Scarcely concealing his nervous alarm by casually drumming his fingers over the desktop, he said, "So, what is it – why are you here?"

"I've been thinking about those pipes, and I went to take another look."

"Oh, for the love of – can't you get it through your skull? Those pipes have stood for over thirty years; they aren't going anywhere."

"Yes, but when I was eating dinner at home, I remembered something I'd read in a journal about how the alloy used in those pipes is vulnerable to degradation from radiation and then corrodes on contact with water. Which would ordinarily be fine, since ordinarily only dry steam goes through there, but then I remembered the breakdown in the primary moisture separator we had a couple decades back..."

"Get to the point."

"We _need_ to replace those pipes, Monty, pronto. And until we do, we need to take precautions so the workers don't get hurt."

"I suppose if we must replace them, we must. You've yet to steer me wrong, old friend." _With the notable exception of the matter concerning your son, but that is not a business affair._ He scribbled his signature on a paper and handed it to him. "You are authorized to order whatever materials are needed for the repair."

"Thank you, sir. That's a load off my shoulders." He tucked the paper under his arm. "Did you see Sam Kinison on Saturday Night Live the other night? That man is a riot."

An alarm sounded throughout the plant. "Man down! Man down! Sector 7-B!"

Monty stood, and they both started off for Sector 7-B.

"Did he say, '7-B'?" said Monty.

"Yes. That's where those damned corroded steam pipes are."

They rushed down the stairs and through the corridors until they came upon the entrance to 7-B, now filling with curious workers and medics. Monty pushed past the throng and ran at full speed to the site of the fallen pipe, prompting Waylon Senior to run after him.

Monty took in a shuddering gasp for air as he sighted a familiar tuft of chestnut hair just beyond the pipe. "Waylon!" he shouted, running to the other side of the pipe, voice shaky and strained and weak even as he lent all the air in his lungs to his beckoning breath. At the sound of his son's name, Waylon Senior hastened after him and crouched at his son's side.

The great pipe, large enough a man could fit inside, had landed on his chest, crushing his ribs, laboring his breathing. He reached his arms around his son's shoulders and held him tightly, tears slipping out his eyes clenched shut. He opened them to look into his son's eyes, and, seeing frantic fear, he began to stroke the back of his head.

Monty took Waylon Junior's hand and held it up against his own heart. "Monty, I... I love you."

He kissed the back of Waylon's ear and whispered, "I love you, my dear Waylon, more than I have ever loved another."

"Dad... I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

He wanted to unleash an anguished cry to the heavens, tear at the clouds and pry them apart so he could drag God down by the collar to explain why this had to be. Instead, he continued to hypnotically stroke the back of his son's head and said, low and serene, "Be brave, Waylon. It'll be just like going to sleep." He sang in a soothing voice, " _Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the dreamland tree and from it fall sweet dreams for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep._ " His son's eyes were glassy and unfocused, his heartbeat only a faint memory. Waylon Senior's shoulders bobbed as he pressed his cheek against his son's. In an anguished plea, he sang in half a whisper, half a sob: " _Sleep, baby, sleep._ "

And so he laid his son to rest for the last time.

"My precious son..." He looked to Monty, his eyes imploring, as though he thought he could bargain with his employer to get his son's life back. "I've been down here a dozen times a day the last thirty years... I was here just a moment ago." Waylon Senior collapsed in Burns' arms, pleading, "Why couldn't it have been me? It should've been me!" he cried out, rising rapidly. "I'm the one who made this beast! Why didn't it swallow me instead?" He fell to his knees, sobbing. "I would give anything for it to have been me."

Monty rose tentatively and rested his palm on his dear friend's shoulder. "It still could be."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Smithers Senior gripped Monty's shoulders with insistent fury. "What the hell was he doing here? Why was he using your private trap door? This is your fault, you withered old hobgoblin!" He shoved him back, propelling him to the floor. Burns' eyed widened in fright, but the kernel of truth in the accusation kept him from moving as his old friend and associate advanced on him with a nigh murderous rage. Smithers bent down and grabbed him by the collar, held him up, dangling. Age had not ravaged his physical prowess so nearly as it had for Burns, but his physical advantage alone could only carry him so far. Burns wasn't fighting back. "Tell me!" His voice low and unsteady, he said, "I swear to God, Monty, I'll kill you, if this was your fault. And you know I can tell when you're lying." The employees encircling them fell dead silent as they watched Burns' right hand man threaten him with death.

"I asked him to come here. I wanted his company, and he obliged me."

"Have you been hiring him to come around here, to – to satisfy you?"

"No, I –"

"You know he still had feelings for you, and you exploited him!"

"I did no such thing!"

"Like hell you didn't!" He grunted and smacked him in the face.

"Are you trying to kill me, Smithers?"

"Tell me the truth!"

"The truth is – we were lovers. And God did I love him," he said in an exhalation that devolved into crying, honest and unabashed crying. "My love for him never diminished as I led you to believe."

The choleric tide receded, and Smithers' face grew blank and sunken, his stare capable of penetrating through lead as easily as gamma rays. He loosened his grasp of Burns. "For how long?"

"The better part of a year. We pledged commitment to each other not an hour ago. There's still some champagne left in the bottle." Biting his lip so hard it began to bleed, Smithers stood and walked away, without looking at anyone or saying anything, and started at a sprint. Burns chased him up stairs and through a circuitous path across creaky ladders and catwalks, finally catching up to him when he got to the top of one of the cooling towers. "Waylon, no!" He made his way until he was a foot from him. "Please, Waylon, don't do anything rash."

"I'm beginning to feel like Schrödinger's cat."

"Like what?"

"Schrödinger's cat. A famous thought experiment in quantum physics. A cat is confined within a chamber, and there is a miniscule amount of a radioactive substance in a Geiger counter. If the counter detects a hit, a device unleashes poison and kills the cat. If it doesn't, the cat remains living. According to the Copenhagen interpretation, until the system is observed, the cat is in an indeterminate state – neither alive nor dead until someone – or something – detects it."

It stunned Burns how calmly and lucidly this man who was clearly mad with grief explained the subject, as though he were lecturing in a university hall. "You don't know how apt the comparison is."

"Like that cat, I'm sitting here, perched on the edge of life and death, but I just don't see the point in either." A brief streak of light caught their eyes. "It's the Leonids," said Smithers Senior. "Waylon always loved to watch them with me when he was a boy."

"I know. He told me when we watched the shower last year." A particularly long, bright, and impressive streak of light drew their eyes the other way. "That was a big one." Smithers rocked gently back and forth, eyes closed, as though ambivalent about whether to drop. "Listen, Waylon." He opened his eyes and turned them to Monty. "You need to know how close he came to never having known his father."

"What?"

"When he was just an infant, while you were at the plant, an alarm sounded. I was about to call for you, when... someone slapped his hand over my mouth. And then, most remarkably... I saw _myself_ , Waylon! From the future. And he – I – told myself that you would die momentarily in a terrible accident if I were to alert you. Then Professor Frink sent a robot into the core to correct the problem, and you got to raise your wonderful son."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if you kill yourself, then his death will have been in vain."

"No, I mean, why are you telling me these lies? To convince me I have some reason to live? Who cares if I have a reason? Me living won't bring him back!"

"True. But what if he would have lived longer had you died that day? If you have to die, my friend, then do so for a reason."

"This is incredible."

"But it's true."

"But it can't be true."

"But what other option do you have but to believe in it? What else could save your son?"

"I knew you could be cruel, Monty, but this... trying to make me believe in the impossible, this is the worst yet. To get a man's hopes up like that..." He headed for the nearest ladder and descended the cooling tower.

Monty bent forward and gazed at the dark cityscape before him, contemplating a drop as a breeze swept him back, and he followed Smithers down the ladder. Monty Burns would live. He had a man's life to save.

And another's to end.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Yes, Mr. Burns, what can I do for you?" said Professor Frink, opening the door to his laboratory.

"This may sound preposterous, but I assure you, it is the unabashed truth," said Burns, stepping inside. "In the future, you will use a time machine to go back in time to 1955 to prevent the death of Waylon Smithers, Sr."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Waylon Smithers, Sr. is still alive; it's his son who – glavin! I get it now! Apparently my future self succeeded – or rather, will succeed. I mean, has succeeded."

"I need to know whether Waylon Junior would still have died so young if his father's life hadn't been spared that day."

"Well, I don't know. I do know that I have an invention that can answer that question."

"Excellent! Show it to me at once," he said, swiftly shutting the door and heading for a nearby corridor.

Frink took the lead and showed him a large computer filling nearly a whole room the size of an average bedroom. "This," he said, gesturing to the machine, "is the Life-Plotter. With it, we can determine the fate of someone if something in the fabric of reality changes."

"Yes, this is what I need. Now, how do we work this contraption?"

"First, I'll have to program in the proposed revision." He typed on the keyboard, and then the machine made a beeping sound like a truck backing up. "Now, I have to initiate the Life-Plot function," he said, twisting a green knob. The machine began to whir. "It'll be a few days."

* * *

The Smithers family and friends gathered around the grassy hill for the funeral of Waylon Smithers, Jr. Burns was the last to join them, and when he did so, Hattie Smithers averted her eyes. Clearly, Waylon had informed her of the relationship he'd had with her son. Not that he would have expected any differently from a scrupulously honest man such as he. Or perhaps he only seemed scrupulously honest by comparison to the mendacious tycoon.

Once the eulogy had ended, Waylon approached the casket to look at his son's face one last time and said in a faint whisper, "It should be me in there." His chest quivered and his eyelids shuddered, and he turned to his wife and they clasped their arms around each other and wept on each others' shoulders.

Burns approached him from behind and ran his hand back and forth over his upper arm. "Smithers?"

"Monty, please, go. I've retired. I don't want to set foot in that plant again."

"I am afraid I've had a difficult time reaching you, but it's of the utmost importance. I went to Professor Frink, and –"

"Don't you get it? Some things are permanent, and you can't just throw money at them and get your way."

"Since when?"

Hattie said, "If you actually believe this time travel story you're telling, you need a psychiatrist."

"She's right, Monty," said Waylon. "Time travel is science fiction, and impossible science fiction at that. Escaping into fantasy won't help anything."

"Smithers, you obstinate old goat! I am not delusional, and for once, I am not lying. Professor Frink showed me your son's Life-Plot, and it shows that had you perished in 1955, your son would be alive and well until the age of 86."

"Why do you insist on tormenting me?"

"Because I need your help to change the past and ensure your son will live."

"Heed my wife's advice and go tell this all to a psychiatrist, but leave me alone!"

"I thought you would disbelieve me, so I came prepared with evidence. I also had Frink make a Life-Plot of you. On April 14, 1928, you wrote in your diary that you were distressed that your father never told you he loved you. At the end of the entry, you wrote that you hated him, then immediately flushed the page down the toilet."

"I must have said something about it..."

"Then here's a glimpse into your future: tomorrow at noon, you will meet me at Professor Frink's laboratory to see the life your son would have had. A life he still can have. I will see you there," he said, leaving.

* * *

 _Earlier that morning_

Mr. Burns stood staring in shock at the printout. "Frink, are you certain every detail is accurate?"

"I assure you, it is as accurate as the law of gravitation."

"But what of his romantic life? Are you sure this is it?"

"Yes, quite certain."

"I see he has relationships with John... Julio... and a number of other men, but... surely there is _one_ omission?"

"The results are reliable and repeatable. He has a number of short-lived relationships that fail due to his pining for you, and he remains steadfastly devoted to you until you die, and then he lives out the rest of his days alone until he dies."

"So he still loves me... but I don't love him?"

"I'm afraid that's correct."

"This is all wrong. You must have made a mistake!"

"Mr. Burns, trying to change the past is one thing, ga-hoyvin, but deluding yourself into thinking things are the way you want them is another."

"So he dies alone, never having known my loving touch." He sniffed back a tear. "And I never having known his."

* * *

 _Noon the next day_

Waylon arrived at precisely noon at Frink's laboratory. Frink and Burns greeted him and showed him to the Life-Plotter and the printed summary of his son's life without him. He read for a few hours.

"You'll be pleased to note," said Burns, "the distinct lack of a dalliance between him and myself."

He shook his head. "Oh, Waylon..." It was unclear whether he was expressing disappointment in his son or in himself. "How could I let this happen to you?"

"You had no part in this."

"Exactly. If I lived, I would have told him to move on from you. I would have made him feel worthy enough to not tolerate your shoddy treatment of him. I would have made sure he knew he could do so much better than you." He poked Burns' chest with his index finger. "Why the hell don't you love him? How could you treat him like that when he lavishes you with adoration?"

"He's my employee. I treat my employees as property. You know my ways."

"But not me. So why him?"

"I don't know! For heaven's sake, I don't know what happened to me any better than you do."

"You strike me as a man who represses often and deeply. I also notice my son doesn't come out of the closet until his mid-forties in this timeline."

"And what of it?"

"I think that him being open about himself allowed you to entertain the notion of being with him. But in this other timeline, when he is concealing himself, you respond in kind and conceal your own affections. You cover for them by spewing vitriol, and because he can't let go of you, he lets you hurt him again and again and again. You are a sad, spineless little man, Monty." He turned to Frink. "What if we went back in time just far enough to replace the pipe, or keep him away from it?"

"I'm afraid I've already investigated those possibilities, and they end in both of your deaths."

Smithers took out his wallet and looked at the photographs of his son – at his fourth birthday party, his college graduation photo, and a picture of him in the Malibu Stacy musical. "At least he still gets to make his musical." He stared out into the distance, dazed. "God, this can't be real. I've lost my mind, haven't I?"

"It's very real," said Frink.

"Can we send anything into the future?" asked Burns.

"With one slight modification, it could be done. But it could occur no sooner than the original future Frink created the portal to the past."

"Waylon, you should prepare some home movies and photographs to send so he can see he did have a loving father. He will cherish it." Smithers nodded. "And you should take time to say goodbye to your wife."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't do any good," said Frink. "You see, once the timeline correction has been made, no one will have memories of this timeline. Your wife would not remember anything, and there is the real possibility she will think you're insane and keep you from going."

"I'll be back here tomorrow to set things right," he said, heading for the door.

As he drove home, his thoughts circled around in a loop. _Is he really going to be better off? Or am I going to deprive him of the love of his life because their relationship revolts me?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Why are these numbers so high? Why is that red light flashing? And what's that alarming sound?" He opened his mouth once more to summon his dear friend, Waylon Smithers, Sr., but a hand clasped around his mouth from behind.

"Shut up. I am you from the future, and unless you want to see Smithers Senior die in a terrible accident, you will do exactly as I say." The elder Burns stepped in front of his younger self.

The older Smithers in turn clasped his hand around the older Burns. "Monty, you have to let me die."

"What?" said both Burnses, voices muffled.

"If you don't let me die, then Waylon Junior will die an early death. I love him far too much to let that happen, and I know you do, too." He looked around and gradually released the elder Burns from his grasp. "Please, Monty. Don't be afraid of love. And above all else, treat my son well." He clasped his hands tightly around one of the younger Monty's hands and shook it briefly yet strongly, a silent plea for his promise. He looked around the corner. "Actually, if I work quickly, I can fix the reactor now, and my son can still grow up with his daddy." He charged into the reactor and began adjusting the control rods.

From outside, Burns gazed into the reactor core, where he watched as Smithers worked the controls slowly, having forgotten much of how it used to work before the safety upgrades he'd installed in the intervening years, and succumbed much more quickly to the effects of radiation poisoning, vomiting on the floor. In a desperate bid to get the reactor sub-critical, he crawled over the controls and onto the control rod mechanism to try to manually knock them back into place to halt the reaction, but he plummeted to the ground mid-seizure, and the alarms kept blaring.

Both Burnses panicked, and the elder Burns hid around the corner as his younger counterpart called out, "Smithers, get in here! Smithers!"

"Sorry, Monty. I was feeding Waylon Junior."

"Will you put that baby down? There's something wrong with the reactor core."

"I'd better go in and have a look." He handed his infant son to Burns' arms.

"No, Waylon Senior. It could be filled with atoms, and steam, and other nuclear bric-a-brac."

"If this reactor blows, the whole town is doomed, including my son." He watched helplessly as his dear friend died an agonizing death before his eyes once more.

* * *

Burns stood in his empty office with Professor Frink, and the moment they fell out of the time portal, a box flew out and onto the desktop with them. Burns caught his corporate insignia on the box and opened it, seeing many photographs of him and Smithers Jr. Sharing iced cream outdoors, playing golf, and many such familiar scenes... but also some less familiar scenes. Smithers holding him, reclined on a towel at the beach. Him kissing Smithers' cheek in his garden. Smithers carrying him in his arms and kissing him flush on the lips.

As startling as these pictures were, the next ones stunned him more. Smithers as a child with his father on his fourth birthday. Smithers Jr. as a teenager with his father at the end of theatre camp. Smithers Jr. and his father and mother and John. He had just seen his mission fail, and yet here was evidence that Smithers Sr. had indeed lived.

He noticed a lengthy letter written by himself and immediately dismissed Frink.

* * *

Waylon Smithers, Jr. approached Burns' office with trepidation. It had been a week since Burns had told him to go home and to not come back until he gave the order. The order had terrified Smithers so much that he had spent several minutes trying to ascertain what was wrong and get a little reassurance that his position wasn't in jeopardy before Burns finally forced him to leave by promising to fire him if he didn't do so immediately. Burns had found out how he felt about him, he was sure of it. What other explanation could there be for such an unprecedentedly short notice for him to take leave? It was the worst week of his life.

He knocked timidly at the door. "S-sir? You asked to see me?"

Burns pressed a button to open the doors. "Ah, Waylon. I hope you had a chance to relax some on your vacation."

"Relax? Sir, I've been a nervous wreck."

"I know you have. But you needn't worry – I won't fire you."

"Oh, thank God," he said, sounding somewhat less relieved than he thought he would. _Won't fire me for_ what _? He_ does _know my feelings for him!_ "Sir, before you say anything else –"

"Call me 'Monty.' You are my friend, are you not?"

Caught off-guard, he said, "Yes. Yes, I – of course I'm your friend, si – Monty."

"I must confess, I've been keeping something from you. Something so earth-shattering, it would be ill-mannered of me to keep it to myself any longer." He reached into the box, which he had kept under his desk, and pulled out a somewhat smaller box. "You see, when Professor Frink came around, he also mentioned he had a time machine. I attempted to go back in time to prevent your father's death at the plant. Apparently, I was successful – for a while. Your father lived, and he raised you alongside your mother. You never came to work for me. You had your own business selling computers, and you were very successful.

"Your father was very loving. He gave you your first Malibu Stacy on your fourth birthday. He was very concerned and protective of you, and he encouraged you in pursuing theater even though it was not his cup of tea. He was always proud of you, and he loved you unconditionally. Perhaps that's why you confided in him that you were homosexual and in a relationship with John while you were still in high school. Unfortunately, you suffered a tragically early death, and so your father opted to sacrifice himself so that you would live. But they managed to send these pictures and letters to us."

"This can't be real."

He pulled out of the box some of the pictures of Waylon with his father. "I didn't believe it at first myself, but... Come with me." He led him to a room with an old projector and loaded some of the home movies onto it. Smithers sat with him, gaping in astonishment at the childhood he almost had.

"I don't believe it," he said in a tone that revealed he absolutely believed it.

Burns brought his hands around Smithers' elbows. "Your father was right," he said, dragging one of his hands up Smithers' arm and onto his shoulder. "He wrote me a letter, too, you see, and he told me what I knew deep down. I haven't allowed myself to show affection to you, and I realize now what a toll this has taken – not only on you, but on myself."

"You know, sir – Monty – it's never too late to start."

"Yes. How right you are," he said with a nervous chuckle, then wrapped his arms around Smithers and laid his head on his shoulder. As Smithers settled into the hug, he felt Burns' lips grace his neck and heard the gentle pucker as his lips broke and air swept into his mouth. After a full minute of hugging, Burns raised his lips to Smithers' ear and said softly, "Don't let me go so long without expressing affection for you again," then gradually disengaged himself.

"I won't."

"Excel–" Smithers put his hands on Burns' cheeks and kissed him on the lips. "–lent."

"I hope you don't mind, I just was caught up in the moment and –"

"No need to apologize. It has been one hell of a moment."

"Wait. You couldn't have concealed your affection that well if even my father knew about it."

 _Should I tell him? Show him the tapes of him and I making love in my office? Or would that only prompt him to make moves on me when I am not prepared to be moved that way?_ "My dear Waylon," he said, caressing the back of his hand, "it's time we get back to work."

On his lunch break, Waylon read the letter from his father repeatedly while watching the home movies from his childhood and adulthood. Monty walked in and sat beside him, drawing his attention when touching his hand.

"Monty," he said, as though wishing to say something to him, but he simply let the name hang in the air.

"Waylon," he said, also with a lingering lack of finality. He did finally finish his thought though. "I think this could be the beginning of something beautiful."

* * *

AUTHOR NOTE: This story has been a loving tribute to Isaac Asimov's _The End of Eternity_ , which involves similar story elements of altering the timeline for the sake of someone the main character loves. When I began writing it, I fully intended it to be a short story of only a couple thousand words, but although the beginning and end are exactly as I originally envisioned them, the middle parts changed drastically. I think the changes made have been for the better.


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Smithers, an old man of 85, approached the coffin-like cryo-tube where Burns lay frozen in his bedroom beside the master bed. He peered into the glass enclosure at his beloved. For the last forty years, he had frozen himself a month or two at a time, alternating with months he spent up and about conducting his business and enjoying Smithers' company. He had insisted at first that this was so that he could prolong his life as much as possible so that he might live long enough for medicine to progress to the point of conferring him virtual immortality, but when Smithers had offered to freeze himself with him so that they would awaken together and not notice the other's absence, Burns had revealed his true motivation.

 _The truth is, Waylon, I don't want you to die alone. My other self, in the note he wrote, told me I would only live to 125. I don't want you to forget about me and re-marry._

Smithers entered the code to defrost the receptacle, to reanimate him without shocking his system. The process took a whole day. Ordinarily, he would fill the waiting time with mundane tasks like shopping or going to get the dry-cleaning back.

Today, he sat beside him, stroking the glass over his face, hour by hour.

* * *

"Monty? Can you hear me?" he said, seeing Burns' eyelids flutter. The defrosting had progressed to the point that Smithers had opened the glass covering. Burns opened his eyes fully and focused his pupils on Smithers'. "Good." He wrapped his left hand over Burns' and stroked the ring on his finger. "I love you," he said, curling his fingers around Burns' cold ones. Burns' eyes squinted at the corners as he smiled, eyes growing innocent and carefree. Smithers kissed him between his nose and cheek.

After another hour, Burns had fully defrosted, and Smithers helped him stand and change into a new robe and slippers, then led him to the dining hall, where they sat opposite each other on one end of the table as servants set a feast of Cornish hen, duck a l'orange, veal scaloppine with capers, and various vegetable sides and freshly baked pies before them. It was more than either of them could eat in a week, and it was the perfect way to greet a man who had not had solid food for a month.

Or in this case, a week.

As they dined, slowly whittling away at their bounty, Burns said, "You've hardly eaten anything. Are you feeling well?"

Smithers' silverware clanged, jolted by his startled hands. "It feels good to see you. Talk to you," he said, looking down to Burns' hands. "We should talk more tonight."

After they had had their fill, Smithers led them back to their bedroom for the evening. Glancing at the sky through the window, Burns said, "Why the devil did you unfreeze me in the morning? You know it takes hours, and now I'll never get to sleep tonight."

"I'm sorry, sir. I just couldn't stand to be without you, when you were so close to me."

Burns did a double-take at the window, noting the snow on the ground outside. "It's still snowing in May?"

"Actually... it's the second week of April."

"Then you unfroze me after only a week? For what reason?"

Smithers' lips crunched together as his jaw tensed. "I have pancreatic cancer. It's inoperable. The doctor gives me a year, at most."

Burns' eyes widened in dejected fear. "Waylon..." He fell into a hug, leaning against him, cheek on chest as his own chest heaved while he desperately fought off tears. "Oh, Waylon, no..." Smithers stroked the back of Burns' head, running his fingers through his hair and tickling the back of his ear. Burns clutched his bony fingers tighter around Smithers' shoulder blades, and a tear slid down the side of his nose, quickly becoming absorbed in the fabric of Smithers' robe as Burns pressed his face into him. "Waylon..."

They talked and cried for hours between recounting fond memories and making plans, until finally Smithers had to rest. "I'll still be here in the morning, and many more mornings after that."

"Yes. You had better be."

Smithers kissed the corner of his mouth and said, "Goodnight, Monty."

 _Goodnight! How dare he say such a thing?_ "Goodnight, Waylon." He kissed him straight on the lips. "I adore you," he whispered in his ear just as he fell asleep. He lay there awake, holding his hand for the next few hours. _I'm going to lose him. He's been at my side for over sixty-five physio-years, and now I'm going to lose him. And I'll be all alone._ Of course, it was precisely the outcome he had engineered to happen – it was the entire point of using the cryo-tube, so their deaths would be closer together. _How can he have only eighty-five years? When I was eighty-five, I was still twenty years away from commencing a carnal relationship with him. And now we've been married for forty years – even if I've only been awake for twenty of those._

He went over their conversation in his mind. Smithers had rejected his proposal to stick him into the cryo-tube until a cure is found. _No, Monty,_ he'd said. _I've enjoyed my life with you. I have to die eventually, and I want you at my side when I do._

 _Then who will be at my side?_ He hadn't said that part aloud. Dying alone was his worst fear, and even to speak of it sent shivers down his spine. It was the final proof of his love, that he would accept his most dreaded fate to spare Waylon from having to face it. _I'll be there for you_ , he'd said.

He tossed and turned, dreaming that their bed opened up in the middle and Smithers fell through, and he jumped in after him, but he could never catch up, no matter how far he stretched his arms down to catch him. He awoke to Smithers' voice saying, "Monty, let go of me. That hurts!"

Burns opened his eyes to see that he was holding onto Smithers' wrists, squeezing as tightly as he possibly could. He loosened his grasp. "Oh. I'm sorry." He turned around in bed to face away from him, and Smithers brought an arm around his torso and smiled.

In the following months, they traveled to New York City and took in every show playing on Broadway, then jetted off to a tropical island, where they spent their days enjoying the sand, the sun, the sea.

They had been on their island getaway for four months, and it was a typical day: They awoke to the sun shining through sheer curtains, Smithers would stretch his arms and yawn, then cheerily say, "Monty, get up. It's beautiful out," and room service would arrive with their breakfasts, though Smithers would usually leave half of his uneaten. "Let's go fishing today," he said, reaching for his fishing pole.

"What is the point? You'd hardly eat anything we catch."

"We'll have fun fishing, even if we don't catch anything."

"You're getting so thin," he said, tracing an index finger across Smithers' waist.

"You're a rather svelte man yourself."

"I've always had a slender frame, though. You, though, you should be sturdier than this." He grabbed his sides and pulled upward. "I can almost lift you."

He chuckled and said, "Well, I guess I won't have to worry about putting on too much weight at the holidays."

"Oh, stuff it. Can't you shut the hell up and be scared for once?"

Smithers furrowed his brow. "I'm just trying to have a positive outlook and enjoy the time I have left. I thought you wanted me to be happy."

"Yes, but are you happy? Are you really?"

"What do you want me to do? Do you want me to spend all day in bed, bawling my eyes out? Just give up and die?"

"No, but –"

"Do you want me to lie here in a drunken stupor? Get by on daytime TV and Valium?"

"Maybe I want you to be scared with me. But no, you have to be Mr. Cheerful, and I have to tiptoe around my fears to avoid the guilt of bringing you down with me."

"Has it occurred to you that I _am_ scared? I'm scared to death, of – well, death. But I don't want to waste time moping about the inevitable. That's time I could be spending with you." He embraced Burns, laying his head on his shoulder.

"This all reminds me of when I saw your father die – both times. I knew what was about to transpire, but there was nothing I could do about it but watch."

"That was different, though. My father died young."

"Waylon," said Burns in a dulcet tone, "to me, eighty-five _is_ young."

"Point taken. But my real point is, there's nothing tragic about my dying. You've given me a wonderful forty-year marriage. For decades, marrying you was a hopeless, outlandish fantasy. You've fulfilled my deepest longings and much, much more. My life has been full, and I want to make it even fuller."

"I do, too, but..." Smithers caressed the back of his neck. "Oh, God, am I going to miss this." Smithers nibbled at his ear. "And that." Smithers brought their lips together and kissed him deeply. "I'll miss you."

"Well, I'm not gone yet." He reached to the floor where Bobo had fallen and handed him to Burns, who clutched his teddy against his chest.

Burns kissed him and said, "Forget about the fish. Let's stay here awhile and... fulfill a few more fantasies."

"I like the sound of that," said Smithers, loosening the belt to Burns' robe.

"Just a moment," said Burns, taking a little throw pillow and covering Bobo's eyes. "Now we may proceed."

* * *

Mr. Burns awoke in his bedroom, clutching Bobo tightly against his chest. "Smithers?" He looked around, scanning the bed for Smithers for a moment before he remembered and squeezed Bobo as tightly against his chest as he could. "Oh..." It had been only a few days since Waylon had died in his arms at their estate, and his presence consumed Monty's dream life. The weight of 125 years tugged at his skin, his bones, his tendons, in ways he had never noticed before. Even opening his eyes proved a chore. "Bobo..." He shut his eyes once more.

The next thing he was aware of was the sensation of being suspended in space, as though empty space extended infinitely above and below him. Next, he heard a big, booming voice beckon him. "Hello, Monty."

It wasn't Smithers. Who then? "Bobo?"

"No, Monty," said the large man in sandals. "I'm not Smithers. _He's_ Smithers," he said, pointing to the side. Nearby, he saw Smithers as he appeared around age thirty-five.

"Waylon," he said, breathlessly. "This... you can't be... I must be..."

"Dreaming?" said God. "No. You redeemed your soul with one selfless act of love. So instead of eternal damnation, I'm letting you two spend eternity together in your preferred forms."

He turned to Smithers. "Waylon, you look..."

"So do you," said Smithers, cheeks flushing.

Burns looked down at himself, noting his body seemed more limber than he remembered, and God handed him a mirror. His jaw dropped as he saw that he appeared as he did in his late twenties, long flowing brown hair, thin yet toned body, and skin that was supple and smooth.

"My God," Smithers said in euphoric admiration.

"Yes?" said God.

"Oh, not you, I meant – he's just so – so astonishingly beautiful." He reached out and ran one hand through Burns' hair and the other down from his shoulder to his forearm, feeling his muscles as he went. "And so strong." He looked him up and down. "And tall."

Burns marveled at Smithers' youthful form. "I haven't seen you like this for fifty years."

"I haven't seen you like this except in tintypes."

"So... eternal youth in paradise, eh? No officials to bribe, no customers to gouge, no one to set the hounds on – Egads! What will we do to pass the time?"

Smithers took him gently by the crook of his arm and said with a sly smile, "We'll think of something."


End file.
